Vail led the way to the staircase, then glanced up one more time to grab a view of the vineyards. It was so peaceful up here. She hadn’t felt an inner sense of tranquility since the day she and Robby arrived here. Her first visit to the Napa Valley, and it was marred by the rampage of a serial killer. Could she ever visit this place again and not be poisoned by memories of this case? It was a rhetorical thought. She already knew the answer.
“How do you know his landlord didn’t tip him off?” Dixon asked.
Dixon’s voice, echoing in the stairwell, pulled Vail out of her reverie. She realized she had spaced out, staring at the vineyards and mountains, smelling the soil-wet air. As she started down the steps, she heard Brix’s voice somewhere below.
“I explained that we didn’t want to make any trouble for her. But short answer is, we don’t.”
Vail’s “short answer”—to her own rhetorical question—was more visceral. The magical Napa Valley would never be the same for her. The Crush Killer had ruined it. Another reason to catch this bastard. As she thought of all that had gone wrong these past few days, of all the victims this killer had now amassed, Vail realized she didn’t need another reason to want to ratchet down a set of cuffs on his wrists.
THEY TOOK BRIX’S CAR and arrived in Sonoma thirty minutes later. The drive was as picturesque as any of the views they had seen along Highway 29. Vineyards, rolling hills, mountains. And today, the hint of sun burning through the cloud cover.
“Welcome to Sonoma,” Dixon said.
Vail craned her neck around, taking in the small and medium-sized residential homes. “Are there wineries in Sonoma, too?”
Despite the seriousness of their task ahead, Brix and Dixon, sitting beside one another in the front seat, looked at each other and laughed.
“I take it that was a stupid question,” Vail said.
“That’d be a ‘yes’ twice over,” Brix said. “First, it was a stupid question. This entire valley is wine country. Second, Sonoma is considered the birthplace of the California wine industry.”
Vail turned away and looked out at the Readers Bookstore they were passing on the right. “Oh.”
“Up ahead is the downtown plaza,” Dixon said, as Brix turned right onto First Street East. “Besides historic wineries, Sonoma also has some interesting shops and galleries. And lots of good restaurants.”
Vail pointed at a ground-hugging white adobe building with a large cross protruding from its roof. “What did that sign say? Mission San Francisco?”
“Mission San Francisco Solano,” Brix said. “An old church.”
Dixon threw Brix a look. “Give me a break. Calling that a church would be like calling Silver Ridge winery a ‘grape juice manufacturing plant.’” She flicked the side of his head with a finger.
“Hey,” Brix said.
Dixon turned to Vail. “California History 101. There are twenty-one missions. That one’s the last one built—and the first one built under Mexico’s rule, in the 1820s. It’s also where the very first vineyards in the valley were planted. By monks who lived in the mission.”
“Not to interrupt the history lesson,” Brix said, “but we’ve got a mission of our own.” He nodded ahead. “We’re coming up on Ortiz’s house.” He slowed the car.
“Which one?” Dixon asked.
“Wait,” Brix said, braking to a crawl. He leaned forward, peering in the right side view mirror. “He’s right there. Behind us, I passed him.”
Miguel Ortiz was walking the sidewalk, about thirty feet away. Brix pulled over to the curb.
Dixon popped her door. “You sure that’s him?”
Brix shoved the shift into park and got out. He turned toward Ortiz, then caught Dixon’s gaze. “Definitely.”
Ortiz must have recognized Brix’s voice, because he spun around. His eyes found the car . . . the look on Brix’s face, the look on Dixon’s.
And then he ran.
“Shit,” Brix said. “Where the fuck does he think he’s gonna go?” Brix jumped back into the Ford, jammed the gearshift into drive, and accelerated. He swung the car around. Dixon pursued on foot. And Vail unstrapped her seatbelt.
Ortiz crossed the street into the park that sat in the center of the square.
As Brix approached, Vail opened her door. “Let me off!”
Brix swung the car toward the curb and screeched to a stop. “Go.”
Vail spilled out and fell into stride behind Dixon, who was about twenty-five feet off the pace. Ortiz was pretty quick for his size and was headed down the cement tile walk that cut diagonally through the park.
Off to their right lay a playground filled with young children climbing on the structures, mothers out for an early afternoon with their kids. If there was one thing the parents were not counting on when they arrived at the park with their children, it was finding themselves in the middle of a police pursuit.
“Miguel,” Dixon yelled. “Wait up.”
Vail quickly surveyed the kids. She yanked her badge from her belt and held it up, hoping the mothers would see and understand what was going down. Clearly, it had an effect, as a couple of them scooped up their children and swung them away from the approaching—and fleeing—suspect.
Vail to Ortiz: “We just want to talk!”
But he didn’t stop.
A child ran out in front of him. Ortiz skirted the boy, who covered his face and ran back toward his mother, but Dixon was not so lucky—she shifted right, into the child’s path—and went tumbling. She landed on her side amidst scattered sand and hard-packed dirt—narrowly avoiding a collision with a brick water fountain.
“Got him,” Vail shouted, as she passed Dixon.
Dixon got back on her feet and slanted across the grass, taking an angle on Ortiz as he cut right onto the asphalt road that encircled the historic, stone-walled City Hall building. He ran past the structure into the front parking lot, then angled left, back into the park and across the grass.
He’s not going anywhere, Vail realized. He’s just trying to get away. He’s either our UNSUB . . . or he’s done something wrong and does not want to face charges.
Ortiz crossed East Napa Street—eliciting a blown car horn as he skirted by an Infiniti FX’s hood—and ran straight into a narrow alley. No, not an alley—a covered sidewalk. A covered sidewalk that fed storefront shops.
Great. Stores—and who knew what else. Is he cutting through here en route to a hiding place—or does he have a friend in a storefront who’ll take him in and run interference?
“Miguel,” Vail yelled, “we just have some questions! You’re not in any trouble—”
Ortiz ran underneath the ivy-covered archways. Vail followed—but there were no longer footsteps behind her. Where’s Roxxann?
Vail passed beneath a sign that read, 42 Unique Shops & Services, slipped on the slick terracotta tile, then scampered past Chico’s, an assortment of other stores, spas, and boutiques—thinking, That blouse in the window would look good on me. I should come back here someday and browse, get a massage . . .
Actually, Vail was thinking about her knee, which was beginning to balk. She heard her surgeon reminding her she wasn’t supposed to be behaving like Lara Croft for at least another few weeks.
She passed a bubbling fountain, which tinkled splattered water on the slick tile, and she had to catch herself to keep from falling. I’m sure the architect thought that was a nice touch, but he clearly didn’t consider the danger it presented to a cop chasing a suspect on wet tile through an alley—
The walkway dead-ended at a ramp, a salmon-and-pistachio tinted two-story stucco building directly ahead—and an oblong court that spread into a maze of more shops and buildings.
And more fountains. Jeez, this architect is into water. What does that say about his childhood?
Ortiz cut right, around a myriad of square columns that supported the various storefront overhangs, then ran into the two-story building’s stairwell.
Stairs, just what I need. Before I jus
t wanted to question Ortiz. Now I’m not so sure. And where the hell is Roxxann?
Vail followed him up and reached the second floor as her knee began throbbing. The staircase spilled out onto a covered outdoor veranda with doors that led to other shops and offices. He could’ve cut left or right, but he chose to go upstairs. He must know something—or someone. Her footsteps on the hollow flooring reverberated. If she had any thoughts of a stealth approach, it clearly wouldn’t fly up here.
As she turned right, Vail saw Ortiz up ahead, grabbing a doorknob and pulling on it, then slapping the door. “Enrique, abre la puerta!” Open the door!
This is where it stops getting interesting. She pulled her Glock—she had no idea who Enrique was or what he had behind that door. Ortiz glanced back at her and his eyes found her pistol. If he wasn’t scared before, his blood pressure must’ve just climbed a few dozen points . . . which was fine, because hers had now risen well above normal, as well.
But Ortiz abandoned his efforts to enter the store and continued on. Vail passed Enrique’s door—marked Private—and watched as Ortiz turned right again and headed down the stairwell. Vail gave pursuit—and then heard shouting.
“Get down. Down on the ground!”
Dixon’s voice. And she wasn’t very happy.
Vail made it down the two dozen steps and there, spread eagle, face down on the ground, was Miguel Ortiz. Dixon, her SIG drawn and steadied out in front of her, stood fifteen feet away. Behind her, Brix pulled up along the side street and swung into the postage stamp parking lot. Jumped out, drew his weapon.
As Vail took a position to Dixon’s left, Brix came up behind them. “Jesus Christ, Miguel. We just had some questions. What were you thinking?”
“I don’t want to go back. Don’t send me back!”
Vail and Brix shared a look. Brix closed his eyes, then holstered his weapon. “You ran because you’re illegal?” He motioned to Dixon. “Let him up.”
“But—”
“Miguel, get to your feet.”
He stood up, keeping his hands above his head. “I thought you think I had something to do with that woman. In the cave. After we talk the other day, I was worried. I no want to go back home.”
“If you had something to do with that woman in the cave,” Vail said, “we’d arrest your ass. And believe me, you wouldn’t ever see home again.”
Brix stepped closer and banded his arms across his chest. “Miguel, we need you to tell us the truth. Will you do that?”
“Sí, sí.”
Brix nodded at Dixon, who holstered her weapon and did a thorough pat down of their suspect.
She stepped back. “He’s clean.”
“You can put your hands down.” Brix shook his head. “When you run from the police, we think you’re guilty of something.”
“No, no guilty.”
“Okay, then. You haven’t told anyone what you saw in that cave, have you?”
“No, you tell me not to. It was important, no?”
“Yes, that’s exactly right. It’s important. It’s still important.”
“I won’t tell.” He shifted his feet nervously. “Can I go now?”
“In a minute. First, tell us about Isaac Jenkins.”
Miguel’s eyes flittered between Brix, Dixon, and Vail. “Who?”
“What about Dawn Zackery?”
Miguel shook his head. “I do not know these people.”
“Where were you yesterday?”
“In the vineyard, tending to the vines.”
“Where?”
Ortiz pointed at Brix. “In yours. Silver Ridge, the Bella Broxton Cabernet vineyard.”
“Who were you with?” Brix asked.
“Mr. Styles. We were putting sulfur on the vines and working the soil. For the cover.”
Brix turned to Vail. “We sometimes use a cover crop between the rows as an early warning system. If there’s something affecting the vines, the cover will show it first.” To Ortiz: “When were you with Mr. Styles?”
“All day. From six in the morning to sundown.”
“I’m going to ask Mr. Styles, Miguel. Will he tell me you were with him the whole time? Did you ever leave him?”
“We were in different rows of the vineyard. But we were talking the whole time. Yes, he will tell you that.”
“And what about after you left Mr. Styles? Where were you and who were you with?”
Ortiz squinted, looked off at the parking lot behind them. “I went home, had dinner with Enrique. My friend.”
“Anyone else see you?”
“The people in the restaurant. El Brinquito.”
Brix nodded. “I know the place. I’m going to check that out, too. And what time did you leave?”
Ortiz looked down and rubbed at his forehead. “I think it was around eight. I went home. Miss Wright can tell you. And I stay there all night and then went to bed.”
Brix pulled out his phone, flipped it open, and aimed it at Ortiz. The electronic click of a simulated camera shutter sounded. “You can go, Miguel. But next time when you see the police, don’t run. Especially if it’s me.”
Ortiz nodded with an embarrassing shift of his eyes. He walked off, his head down. When he was far enough away, Vail said, “He’s illegal. You knew that?”
Brix pocketed his phone, then lifted a shoulder. “If we got rid of all the illegals in California, it’d bring our economy to a screeching halt.”
Vail watched Ortiz in the distance as he crossed East Napa Street. “If Ortiz were a serial killer, he’d fit more in line with a disorganized killer. Not very sociable, lower education, average intelligence at best, manual labor type job. But like I said before, our offender is more complex. He’s predominantly organized. He brings the weapon with him. He’s purposeful, he plans his kills. He’s intelligent, sharp, and resourceful. Bottom line, Ortiz doesn’t look like our UNSUB.”
“I didn’t think so,” Brix said. “Still, I’ll check out his story, just to be sure.”
“And that means we’re still nowhere,” Dixon said.
Vail turned and headed into the parking lot, toward Brix’s car. “Not nowhere, Roxx. Just not where we want to be.”
THIRTY-SIX
As they settled into Brix’s Crown Victoria, Ray Lugo phoned to tell Brix he was on his way to Sonoma to hand deliver new information. His ETA was ten minutes.
While waiting, Brix emailed Vail his camera photo of Ortiz, and then she and Dixon walked over to the visitor’s bureau, which backed up to City Hall in the square’s parklike center. The interior office space was pleasant, filled with maps, signage for events and area promotions, and brochure racks.
Vail and Dixon showed the staff Ortiz’s picture and asked if they knew him. Both women said they had seen him around, but had never observed any unusual or unruly behavior.
As they left, Vail said, “I didn’t think that’d get us anywhere.”
“You never know when you’re going to run across a victim who escaped alive, someone who’s too scared to go to the cops. Or one guy who heard another guy bragging about his kill.”
By the time they returned to the car, Lugo was pulling alongside Brix, who was leaning against the front quarter panel of his Ford.
Lugo got out, holding a manila folder above his head. “Kevin called me. He was going through Victoria’s things and found her file of board notes.” He handed them to Dixon. “I started to go through them but then remembered you were meeting with the board president today.”
“We were supposed to have already met but we pushed it back to chat with Miguel Ortiz.”
Lugo shook his head. “Let me guess. Waste of time.”
“It was worth a shot,” Brix said with a shrug. “I’ve got some things to follow up on, but yeah. Looks that way.”
Lugo nodded at the folder in Dixon’s hand. “Hopefully that’ll help you out when you meet with that board president.”
Vail consulted her watch. “Speaking of which, let’s get going.”
Vail and Dixon took Lugo’s car, leaving Brix to partner with Lugo, and headed to Wedded Bliss Estate Wines, where the Georges Valley AVA board president served as chief executive. While en route, Vail reviewed the file Lugo had brought them.
After several minutes of struggling to make out the handwriting and abbreviations, Vail stretched her neck and rolled her shoulders.
Dixon tapped the papers. “Anything in there?”
“Some of it’s tough to read. Lots of shorthand and scribbles in the margins.” Vail turned a couple of pages. “One thing stands out. Something about SMB. It says ‘SMB better deal. No: VC, TN, IW. Won’t carry.’”
Crush (Karen Vail Series) Page 27