by Peter Prasad
He studied the pit—long enough to take a double-wide coffin. Someone had hacked it out of forest debris and piled the dirt for spark protection. It was recently dug. The mounds of upturned earth retained some wet clay.
How to approach? Anyone inside the lab would be able to see him through the row of windows. He’d have no way to explain himself and these people carried guns.
Jake decided he’d claim he was looking for his lost dog and wanted to see if he’d fallen into the pit. That excuse might keep him from getting shot, unless they were burning bodies, human bodies.
Jake went to see for himself.
He stood up and jogged quickly to the pit, then crouched down behind a mound of soil. He nosed toward the heat from the burn pit. The hole was crackling red but the smoke had subsided. He expected wood trash. Finding plastic barrels of grain alcohol as evidence would be ideal.
What were these fools up to?
The cindered remains of two goat carcasses lay at the bottom of the pit. He identified them by their horns. Their faces had burned off. White rib bones and vertebrae peeked from the glowing white ash. Oddly, with all the fuel poured on them, the rear haunches of both goats were singed but not burned. The carcasses had been burned whole. Neither showed signs of butchering.
Jake pulled his face away from the heat of the pit. He was sweating profusely, his hair matted to his scalp. The dead goats were dumped on top of a few branches, now reduced to white embers. Jumping into the pit was out of the question.
Jake remembered a comment by Stoddard when he collected the dead goats. He was surprised that the carcasses were being dumped instead of being burned. Jake wondered if these carcasses were missing their livers, but both carcasses were too badly burned to tell. It made no sense to him. What was the link between adulterated wine and dead goats?
Jake darted back to the shelter of the nearby tree line and hunkered down in the forest debris. He used his cell phone to take a series of photos that he could study later.
He was considering a close-up investigation of the winery buildings when he heard the crunch of tires on gravel. The black van and another black SUV pulled into the parking area and parked.
The pistol-packing whack-job walked into the lab building. A second man, wearing a lab coat and glasses, climbed out of the SUV and joined him.
Through the windows, he could see the two men sit at a table. Slowly he withdrew from his vantage point. The woods provided him cover, but he’d be exposed again when he cleared the gate and ran down the entry road. He did not intend to get caught on the property. His lost-dog story would not satisfy the whack-job.
As Jake moved through the woods, circling the hill to reach the gravel road, he listened for the telltale sounds of a car engine. The woods were quiet. He moved quickly. The smoke had dissipated. The air was fresh and rich with forest scents. It felt cool in his mouth.
His mind was racing faster than his legs. By the time he reached the dairy, he had a plan. Thank Uncle Sam; he’d been trained in surveillance. It required some equipment, which he’d consider an investment in a new career—a PI’s tools of the trade.
***
Up at the dairy the next morning, the ewes had settled into a routine of sniff-and-rub-my-fluffy-tail. The ever-eager rams obliged.
Jake checked in with Marco and Sandy. She gave him a short list of supplies to pick up in Santa Rosa. It meant an extra stop at The Beverage People for cheese-making ingredients, the dosage of enzymes added to cure the curds. No problem, Jake had cover and an excuse for the other items on the shopping list that lengthened in his head.
His check list of surveillance items would cost most of his saved-up Army money. His plan was also dangerous, but Jake Knight had his blood up now. These guys might be the goat-killers and he wanted to know why. The idea that he might end up in the burn pit with two dead goats never entered his mind. Semper frickin-fry.
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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Safe from splatters and spills in a long black rubber apron and blue plastic gloves, Semper bent over the stainless steel tub of “additive” in one of his wooden warehouses at Fransec. It was just after seven in the morning, his favorite time to work on such chores, before the heat of the day. He tasted it again, no more than a teaspoon poured from a long glass pipette. He sipped approvingly. His elixir was complete.
He opened a drain cock in the bottom of the tub and filtered the brew through a cotton sock as it poured into a large plastic bin. Light danced on the surface of the ruby red liquid, flashing shades of purple and violet. At this dosage, it was strong on grain alcohol. His task was to make the dosage blend in seamlessly.
He smelled the enhanced odor of oak from the raw wood chips he had soaked in the brew. The ruby red color was spot on and would cover any initial confusion the experienced tongue might detect. Semper smiled at his own skills. This was better than printing money.
His next step was mission-critical. He had to pour the correct amount of the brew into each of 30 wine barrels lined against the wall. They were already filled with the Shawn Red wine he’d acquired in the purchase of the estate, but the wine needed help. And Dr. Semper was nature’s little helper when it came to wine of unparalleled distinction.
His hands fumbled to release the bung plugged into the hole in the middle of each barrel. The barrels rested on their sides in a stout metal frame. He decided to add five pipettes to each barrel and see how much of his additive remained. To test, he filled a pipette with Shawn Red from the barrel and decanted it into an empty bottle. He added a measured dose of his brew. He shook the bottle vigorously. His customers would be appalled. Semper looked up to confirm he had shut and locked the sliding wooden door into the storage barn.
He held the clear bottle up to the light, looking for striations. He poured himself an inch to taste in a wine glass. He swirled and sniffed. The oaky aroma excited his nose. He sipped and swirled and pulled air through his mouth to aerate the wine. The mix of flavors exploded on his tongue. It was strong fruit forward, hardy, burley, and bold.
He could sing this wine’s song. The tannins, while bitter now, would age out, giving the wine legs for 20 years. Thus a four-buck plonk, a common vin ordinair, once known as Shawn Red, became a special wine for the discriminating European collector—Fransec Estate Superior.
He’d date the labels 2003, he decided. He’d launch the wine as already ten years old, so the auction could begin at fifty dollars per bottle plus. $600 per case. $12,000 per pallet. $240,000 per container. He had orders for three containers, two to Germany and one to Sweden. Semper wanted to create a feeding frenzy. His real goal was $100 per bottle.
He sat on the table top, after brushing it carefully to remove any dust. He tugged at his pant leg, not wanting his knee to stretch the dapper hang of his cotton slacks. He opened a bottle of sparkling water, swished out his mouth and spit. Then he drank his fill. This was hot work. Too bad he couldn’t trust William or Vanessa with the task. Not now, maybe later.
Next week, he’d have this batch of wine bottled, corked, dropped into 12-bottle cases, and shrink-wrapped onto pallets. His exporter would take it from there. Semper rubbed his hands together imagining all that money.
With his blending work completed, Semper tapped the bungs back into their holes. He expected a London buyer to swing ‘round for a tasting later that day. He had best explain the wine as a blend, a Meritage, not as a single varietal. What did he feel like selling today?
He’d make it a classic Burgundy, a blend of wines, 80% the most expensive cabernet sauvignon, 10% merlot, with 5% malbec and 5% cabernet franc. The malbec would explain the purple highlights and fresh tannins.
That formula would overcome any stuffy British fussiness. Semper had won that debate many times. It would help explain the smooth glide from flavor to flavor as the wine rolled across the taster’s tongue. Semper imagined the buyer kissing his fingertips and waving them in the air.
“No, no one else in the valley
is making anything like this,” he’d say. Semper had worked for the best estates in Sonoma, as a consultant and master blender. He knew them all, and his wines left them behind. Without his help, none of them had the depth of knowledge, tasting experience or imagination to make anything close. That should be sufficient.
Pour the buyer a second glass and let the wine do the talking while Semper completed the order form and confirmed the shipping address. He’d agree to a 10% discount by the pallet, and a 15% percent discount for a container, of course. Funds to transfer to his bank upon receipt at the bonded warehouse at San Francisco airport. The buyer carries the risk of transport.
Semper had watched over her shoulder as he instructed his little Vannie to email a confidential list of his European buyers to the new London merchant. It established his bona fides. The list dripped with prestige. No, no one else in London had proven worthy. His new buyer would have an exclusive for the foreseeable future.
Had the London buyer submitted his marketing plan in order to prove worthy of representing Fransec? Semper reminded himself to put the new buyer on the defensive as quickly as possible. Make him earn the right to represent Fransec.
He could milk this cow for one hundred more barrels, at least. He did the math in his head. Approximately two pallets per barrel, ten barrels per shipping container. Semper looked up to count his barrels again. He was looking at about $2.5 million dollars in inventory. He was earning a ten x multiple on his investment. And if the auction went higher, he’d be looking at three to five million. Semper loved the wine trade. He was so good at it, too.
He locked the barrel barn securely and walked toward the office. It was shaping up to be another hot day. Semper hungered for his air conditioning.
Settled behind his desk, he jumped into the most critical phone calls.
Vannie was meeting the London buyer at the airport, 90 minutes away, and driving him to the winery. She was proving useful, but he couldn’t let her drink too much as she had to return the man to the airport.
Semper carefully cleaned his hands with an antiseptic wipe. He made himself two salmon croissant sandwiches and sipped from a bottle of Perrier. He returned to his desk to eat. He scanned his calendar to refresh his memory. Ah, the phone call with his contract chemist was next. Semper dialed the number and inserted the cell phone ear bud into his ear.
He’d met Stanley, the contract chemist, twice for dinners in south San Francisco to outline his needs. He’d already paid him $5,000, in cash, at each dinner, and indulged the man, remarking on his genius, blah-blah-blah.
The field trials on the goats were proceeding as well as Semper could hope. He was ready for the big bang now, a blend of the two formulations, pushing the limits for speed and dosage, yet a poison whose results still could be explained as a freak of nature, a sudden and severe seizure.
“Stan-lee, where are we?” Semper trilled.
The man sounded so meek on the phone, though his science was proving fruitful. Semper listened as Stanley explained his formulations, his procedures, his extracts, and his ever present concern for expenses, expenses, expenses. Semper allowed the man to prattle on.
“I’ll have a check for you when I see you next, Stan-lee. I’m making you wealthy, well above what that toxic lab is paying you,” Semper said. “So where are you on my microbial mix? The test subjects are keeling over in one minute now. But that is by direct injection. I want something that enters through the G.I. tract. Something swallowed, immune to a low level of alcohol, say, under ten percent.”
“Why are you feeding alcohol to dogs?” Stanley asked.
“Because they’ll drink it and die. I want these wild dogs off my property and I don’t want to raise suspicion with the Humane Society or Animal Control,” Semper explained. It was a lie, but Stanley had bought it at the first dinner, and Semper remembered to maintain the illusion.
“Blend the two formulations and make it stronger, much stronger. I want to see an almost instant effect.” Semper listened to the man blather on, confident he would do his job to Semper’s complete satisfaction, ultimately. Or die trying. Stanley was hungry for more money, that was all.
“Yes, salmonellosis is good. Cholera is too slow. Shigellosis is good, too.” Semper was pitching the Latin right back at Stanley now, demanding more.
“An accelerated botulism, oh, I like that. Enterotoxins tearing at the lining of the G.I. track. Poor puppies,” he said. Stanley asked about the money again, a cashier’s check for full payment. Agreed. One vial would contain about twenty doses. Agreed.
Semper reviewed the direction of the conversation. “There are many things to like about botulism. Clostridium botulinum,” he rolled the Latin syllables across his tongue.
“It’s anaerobic, a spore-forming rod, found in the soil. So there’s our pathway. The poor dog got bad dirt on his paw and licked himself. It works at the neuromuscular junction, preventing impulses from nerve cells to muscle cells. So you may shit yourself and you know it, and there’s nothing you can do about it.” Semper giggled.
Semper’s eyes watered in anticipation. He cleared his throat and lowered his voice one register, and continued. “It results in muscle paralysis. You can’t walk. You can’t run. You gasp for air and feel yourself slipping away. Silently.”
Semper went on: “Boost it with a dollop of Clostridium tetan. I want to see spasms that result in lock jaw, nerve damage and the inhibition of muscle relaxation. The poor bugger is going to croak, big time. Cold as clay. What am I saying, the dogs, man, the dogs.” He paused to listen.
“No, meet me here at the winery. I want to show you around. I’ll have your check. Let’s make it a business check, that’s easier to explain to my CPA. Plus a bonus. And I want your notebooks. Sound like a plan?” Semper summarized.
Semper could see it all, his coup de grace, and his finishing touches for all his planning. Problems solved. Set and match. His exit strategy. His assent to the top of the Sonoma wine pyramid with real money to burn. So simple. He ended the phone call with agreement to meet at the winery in three days’ time.
Semper spent an hour staring out the window, watching his vines ripen, daydreaming about the interplay of light on leaf, the bombardment of photons on chlorophyll. All leaves were covered with bacteria, as were all surfaces in his office. Thankfully, only Semper would have the nasty ones.
Next week he’d have a contractor and his workers come in to harvest the grapes and crush offsite, then return with the grape juice to fill his blending tanks and barrels. The new wine would sit in the old barrels for the winter. Semper imagined himself drinking his way through the south of France. All for the education of his tongue and all a valid business expense. He was pleased with himself.
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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The crunch of gravel under the tires of Vannie’s Prius pulled Semper from his reverie.
He could daydream later; his little kewpie doll was scheduled for another session soon. Was she worth dragging to Europe? Maybe, and then again, maybe not. He stood up, brushing his hands across his suit vest. Now it was time to close another sale. A very big sale.
Semper dusted imaginary lint from his jacket. He pinched at the crease in his trousers. He spritzed a splash of mild wine zest eau de cologne on the backs of his hands. He was loath to imagine what germs the London buyer may have imported on his skin. He would have to find a way to encourage the man to wash his hands. Here they were.
Vanessa flowed into the room, followed by Mr. Jared Vanderblake, a buyer for the Tottenham’s chain of higher-end beverage emporiums throughout England and Wales. Jared was dressed in an elegant Saville Row three-piece suit, jet black with the hint of a thin burgundy stripe. He wore a light purple shirt and purple silk tie. He carried a black leather six-pack sampler case, monogrammed with the golden letters JV. His business card hung from a label attached to the handle of his carrying case. The backside of the luggage tag read: Tottenham Wine’s Finest.
D
espite a seven-hour hop to New York, and a six-hour hop to California, Vanderblake was in fine form, speaking rapid-fire in a toff accent. Vanessa tried to keep up, catching every third word. Yet she bowed and scraped and tittered, doing her best to chum the waters and keep Vanderblake hooked.
Vanderblake placed a small paper cup of coffee on the table top with his black leather valise. “A double espresso. Frightful, dreadful stuff. No cream whatsoever. They offered me almond milk and soy.” He made “soy” sound like a disease.
“Well, I’m in the outback, hiking through the hinterlands. What can I do?” He beamed at Semper, who approved of him immediately.
Vanderblake marched boldly across the room with his hand extended, his enthusiasm overflowing. “Dr. Koch Semper, I presume? Delighted. Truly delighted. Let me assure you.”
The two wine snobs shook hands. Vanderblake immediately looked over at Vanessa and smirked. “She arrived in an eco-vehicle of some kind. My first experience in such. I see you do not waste yourself with the frivolity of limousines. Up and coming, are we?” Vanderblake raised a single eyebrow in a long-studied gesture.
His eyes darted toward Vanessa. He smiled at her, dismissively, and then returned his gaze to Semper. He thrust his chin forward, slightly raised, blinked his buggy eyes, and peered at Semper down his large, pale nose, red and bulbous at the tip, dotted with blue spider veins. He held the pose for effect, then launched back into speech. Semper felt as though his penmanship was being examined by a Dickensian school principal. Vannie observed it all.
“Now Vanessa has been a pure delight. Ever so attentive. Met me at the airport and assisted with my bags. Drove me up here straight away, chattering about the sights. Ah, Sonoma, so good to be back to sample the fruit of your earth.” He inhaled, puffed up his chest, and walked to the window, parted the blinds and peered out at the rows of vines.
