Ferguson piped in. “The widow Hatchett is a dead end. Her name's Renee, age 52. She didn't seem all that broken up, but the guy was never home. He was always critiquing some restaurant, hoping to get comped meals, which is a no-no in the Critic's Book of Conduct. She said their marriage had become one of convenience. Her money, her rules, and as long as he stayed occupied and out of her circles, she was happy. From what she said, her friends didn't like him much either. No surprise there. I don't see her as a suspect. No motive and a solid alibi. She has all the money. He was on a fixed allowance that wouldn't make a small dent in her bank account.”
“Thanks for taking care of that, Don. Okay, we need to get this organized. There are many cross alibis to check, so I’ll get Austin to develop a program to compare what we have,” Tomlinson said. “Let’s finish here and get back to the interrogations. There should be twelve more interviews here and the three senior winery principals by phone. Face to face interviews with them can happen if we think it’s necessary. Hank, will you call the winery guys? Maybe you could work with Austin.”
“Sure,” Hank said, pleased with the assignment.
After lunch, they headed back to headquarters. Hank got the list of people to talk to before he and Tomlinson headed toward the monitor room.
The interviews concluded by six o’clock, including the people Austin and Hank called. Six people they expected, didn’t show up. The team gathered in the squad room joined by Austin Dugan, the computer whiz. Tomlinson asked him if he had a way to sort out and crosscheck the alibis.
“I have an idea of how to make it work. I’d like all of you to give me your briefing notes of who said what to whom, where, and when. If you can give me these before you leave, I'll work on them tonight and have them ready in the morning.” Austin said, looking at Tomlinson.
“That sounds great, Austin. Please show us an example of what you want, and we’ll get it to you in an hour. I’ll buy the pizza. Bridge, will you do the food run?”
He nodded yes.
Austin handed out three by five cards and wrote on the easy-erase-board how to list the information, using one card per subject. As an example, he wrote, Ms. X in group #1 was with Mr. Y in group #2 at the (location) car at (time) to (time). #1, #2, and #3 are the applicable interview groups. When he finished his written instructions, he said, “Make a list of the people you interviewed. Is this process okay with you, Agent Tomlinson?”
“It sounds good. I hope you can connect these statements with the photos of the various people in those we received from the Sheriff's office. Guys, any questions about what Austin wants?” she asked.
Donovan raised his hand like a kid in third grade. “I kinda got lost. Could you go over that again?”
Alicia stared at Donovan until he looked away with a sheepish look on his face. “Austin, please explain to Donovan again while everyone else gets started.” As her eyes pierced through Donovan, she snarled, “Don't take too long, Donovan.”
To the rest of the group, she snapped the order, “Okay, let’s hit it! First, I want someone to give me a list of the individuals who didn’t show for an interview.”
As the agents returned to their desks, Hank said to Alicia, “Let me get the pizza so Agent Bridge can work on his lists and cards.”
“That would be great, Hank! I knew we could put you to good use,” she smiled, eyes wide. "Take everyone's order and call ahead, so you don't have to wait,” she added, handing him a coupon with the address and phone number of the pizza joint.
The pizza place said they were busy, so Hank had a free half hour, he returned to his motorhome to take care of Molly. Excited as always, she sang and danced, “Woof, Woof, Woof,” when she heard him at the steps. At six-forty, Hank returned to the office, balancing three large Frank’s Pizzeria pizzas, along with two six-packs of soda.
“Let’s eat!” Announced Tomlinson. “Thanks, Hank,” she said. Hank handed the pizzas to Smith, who made room at the conference table while Hank found a spot to place the sodas.
The team gathered around the conference table with the pizzas, soda, and a roll of paper towels. During the next ten minutes, no one spoke, reminding Hank of his days in Los Angeles when the detectives at the precinct became engrossed in a big case, eating at weird hours with little sleep for days on end.
The team had the interview lists completed and were working on the cards. Austin took their lists, entered the data into his computer and printed copies for the team, including Hank. The kid had the database setup before they completed their cards. He whizzed through the cards as if he were Dale Earnhardt, Jr, going for the checkered flag.
Bridge advised the group, “Six people didn't show up for interviews. One winery rep, two executives who paid to attend the event, one bartender and two kitchen workers.” Austin wrote the six names on the board. Bridge identified them with additional information. “Carmen Loccisano, a full-time sous chef for the train over the past three years. She called to say her daughter was sick, and she would come in on Friday. I called Robert Taylor, a wine rep for Mondavi. His office told me he had an important sales meeting but would show up here on Friday. Bernard Rossman, the owner of Rossman’s Specialty Food and Wine Mercantile in Mill Valley, is needed at the store but also plans to be here Friday. Jackson Crow, the bartender, is a student at Napa Junior College. Because of classes, he called to ask if he could come in on Friday. Since we interviewed Crow last night, I'm not too concerned.”
“That makes sense. Call Crow to see if he has any more to add. If not, he can stay at home,” Alicia told Bridge. “Also, call Stan Klein. See if he remembers anything else.”
“Will do. I reached Francis deVoe, owner of deVoe’s Gourmet Cheese & Wine, in Sparks, Nevada. She was too distraught about the events and went directly home but provided a confirming alibi,” Bridge said. “The person I can’t reach is Thomas Caswell, the chef-owner of Chez Gerard in Danville. I tried the cell phone number he gave when he registered for the Wine Train, but he didn’t answer or respond. Doesn’t have a land line, but we have an address. Since we haven’t heard from him, I think we need to get someone out there and bring him in.”
Agent Smith volunteered his opinion. “I have a strong hunch about this guy. He acted a little nervous and shifty when I talked to him in the school gym. I dunno, but I think we need to get to this guy fast.”
“I can send Carl George to the address we have,” Bridge said. “He lives in Oakland and is available.”
“Thanks for being on top of this, Chris. Thank Carl for assisting,” Tomlinson said. “Who do we expect in for interviews tomorrow?”
“Jason Brisbane doesn't have a valid alibi. He's a marketing executive with Oracle. Claims no conflict with Hatchett, but admits he saw him before eleven-thirty. There's Stephen Drummond, an executive with Sloan Distributing, a liquor and wine wholesaler. I don't know about a corroborating alibi for him, either.”
“Double check that with Austin in the morning.” Alicia looked at Austin, who nodded as he wrote on his notepad. “Who else is coming in?”
“Fred Royals is a district manager for the Daniels Group, a restaurant company with several places in the Bay Area. He doesn't like Hatchett's reviews. Big surprise,” Bridge smiled. “Two women, Morgan Brown and Nancy Tepley, alibi each other, but no one remembers seeing them during the murder period. They claimed to be in the rear lounge car during the trip.” Looking around the room, he concluded. “That's it.”
“Thanks, Chris. I will be at the postmortem at nine o'clock tomorrow morning but should be back before noon. You all know what to do. Let’s call it a night. Everyone get some sleep. We have a lot to do once I get the M.E.'s report.”
As the agents gathered the materials and notes, Hank helped Alicia with the pizza remains. “Hank, will you work with Austin and see if there are other possible suspects?” She asked.
“Happy to. If you don't need me, mind if I bow out for most of tomorrow morning? I need to work on my article.”
“Sur
e. I appreciate your help.”
“Have you ever had a case like this?” He asked.
“Not quite, but it has the usual complexities.”
“Like all homicides, I guess, but you have a hell of a suspect pool to weed through. I'm glad I could help today.”
“Ah, sure,” she said, her eyes unfocused on the paper in front of her.
“Are you okay?” Hank asked, knowing she looked exhausted.
“Fine. Why do you ask?”
“You have that look.”
“What look?”
“A cross between being pissed off, and contrite.”
She rolled her eyes. “Hmm? I'd like to talk about your article,” she said, those gorgeous eyes twinkling. “And, I could use a drink.”
“Me, too! Shall we?” His smile spread from ear to ear.
EIGHT Thursday, November 21, eight pm
Hank followed Alicia's Agency sedan, pulling in behind her when she parked a block from the ‘Old Town’ part of the city at a quarter to eight. He joined Alicia at her car.
“You drive a Mini?” Alicia laughed. “I would have expected you to drive a big sedan or SUV. You must be six feet tall. How do you fit?”
“I'm not a cop anymore. Besides, the car's comfortable. and tows well behind my motorhome. I fit just fine.”
“No, that's not the point. When you got out of the car, I half-expected a bunch of clowns to follow you!”
“Are you making fun of my car?” They laughed, as she led the way to the bar.
They walked along the sidewalk next to the refurbished old buildings across the street from the American River, a part of the original development of the city in the mid-1800s. “This area had fallen into decay and was a blight on the city,” Alicia remarked as she pointed out the unique buildings. “The restoration began in the 1960's, with the preservation of some of the buildings, while others got demolished, and then replaced with replica buildings of the era. Old Town has become a favorite spot for tourists, and the locals in Sacramento.” Pausing to take a breath, she asked Hank, “Have you been here before?”
“A few years ago, but didn't know the history.”
The Back Door Lounge on Firehouse Alley appeared to be an old bar from decades ago. Nothing fancy about the place except for a long antique wooden bar backed by a full-length mirror with several glass shelves displaying colorful bottles of liquor.
As Alicia led the way past the long bar, she high-fived two women and noticed by several men. She chose a cozy corner away from the bar. When seated, Hank studied the auburn-blonde hair billowing over her shoulders. She removed her emerald green jacket to reveal a white blouse with a scoop neck. Since she’d worn the jacket throughout the day, he had not observed her ample cleavage. He assumed she dressed for authority, but she couldn’t hide her sensuality. Her cream colored boots were the perfect complement to her pantsuit. Hank loved women wearing high heeled boots, and Alicia’s outfit made her look sexy and provocative. Simple pearl post earrings, matching choker necklace, and utilitarian watch, were her only jewelry. Trying to estimate her age, he figured mid-thirties, but she looked young in the low lighting of the bar.
“You look great.” Hank smiled.
“Thank you, Hank.” She brushed her hair away from her face, a slight blush on her cheeks.
He picked up the drink list from the table, looked at Alicia and said, “I hope you don't mind,” then he read it out loud. “If you want to feel you are in some cheesy old-town Vegas lounge, this is the place to be. We serve only one beer. Back Door Lager and we make a damn good Vodka Gimlet. The martinis are–”
“I hope you like this place,” Alicia interrupted. “It's one of my favorites. I don't find it cheesy, just an old school, dive bar.” She seemed to enjoy his tourist behavior.
“It's perfect. I love these themed bars. They provide interesting people-watching. I haven't been to this area in years, so it’s fun to see the changes and I appreciate the information you have on the area.” He looked around at the typical old bar décor with dark wood walls, red upholstery, and fake Tiffany chandeliers. “My kind of place.”
Alicia grinned at him, “I thought you might dig it.”
A waitress appeared, placing menus and a bowl of seasoned popcorn on the table. “Hi, Alicia. Happy to see you. The usual?” Alicia nodded. The young server turned her attention to Hank. “May I take your drink order?”
“What 's the usual?” Hank asked.
“A vodka Gimlet on the rocks with a lemon wedge,” Alicia said.
“I'll have the same, please.” Something else we have in common, Hank thought.
When the waitress left, Hank said, “You obviously come here often.”
“At times.” She crossed her legs that stretched her pant leg, revealing shapely thigh and calf. After a brief glance, Hank averted his eyes. Too much smiling!
“See anything you like?” She asked following his gaze back down to her legs.
“Absolutely,” he smiled, embarrassed that she caught him.
“Thanks.” Her smile was alluring. “I was talking about the menu.”
“You can't blame a man for appreciating beauty.” Hank hoped she didn’t mind his attraction.
The waitress arrived with the drinks. “Would you like to order?” She asked.
They both said, “Drinks only, thanks.”
The waitress frowned and left.
“I almost said 'Jinx' but decided better,” Hank said.
Alicia moved the conversation toward another direction. “You live in a motorhome?”
“Yes, Molly and I live in an RV. We travel around the country visiting sights and places that strike my fancy, or those where I need to research for my articles.”
“Molly? Please elaborate.” Alicia rolled her eyes.
“Molly is the sweetest most loving partner I've had in years, and she is my best friend.”
“So, you're married, Hank?”
“Let me explain,” he said, taking her hands in his and stared into her eyses. She didn't pull away. “Molly's my dog. She's a seven-year-old black lab I adopted a few years ago. She travels with me, kisses me when I'm down and is always, always, happy to see me. And she never asks me to take her out to dinner.”
Alicia laughed out loud. Hank wondered if her joy was him being single, or his sense of humor. They talked about pets and the breeds and mutts they'd owned. Hank hoped she loved dogs as much as he did. When she finished her gimlet, she leaned back in the booth, unaware of her beauty. Without asking Alicia if she wanted another drink, Hank motioned to the waitress for two more. Something unfamiliar was happening with this attraction. Before he could explore what he was feeling, Alicia again shifted the conversation.
“Tell me more about why you were on the Wine Train. All I heard was you are a writer. Charles Beaumont spoke highly of you.”
“And I think the world of him,” Hank replied. “Charles is a remarkable and generous man. Not only do I admire him but wish I could be more like him. He's responsible for me getting hired to write an article about the event for Wine Specialty Magazine. I am limiting the event description and activities to announcing the First Annual Napa Valley Beaujolais Nouveau Tasting. The purpose of this event was to raise scholarship money for the enology apprentice program. They hope to raise at least $80,000. I have no intention of reporting on the murder. The article covers the wine, the train, and the scholarship fund.”
She gazed into his eyes. “I wouldn't allow you to write about the murder.”
Having her look at him that way aroused Hank. He hoped she didn’t notice. When the gimlets arrived, Hank gave the server a fifty. As Alicia reached for her drink, her blouse clung to her body. Hank saw a movement of a muscle, curves, and the tug of her bosom. He thought he might have a heart attack. Oh, my.
The waitress placed the change on the table. “Here,” Hank said handing her a ten.
“Thank you, sir,” she said, pleased.
“Thanks,” Alicia said, holding her gla
ss up to his. They clinked glasses. “What if the magazine wants to add the murder information to your article?” Alicia asked. Hank wondered if she were teasing him or testing him.
“I’ll sue them and buy a casino in Vegas,” Hank said, grinning. This woman was getting under his skin. “No. My agreement disallows content editing without my approval. Alicia, remember, it's a wine magazine, not People Magazine.”
“I hope I can trust you.”
“Of course, you can. Plus, by the time the article reaches the public, the murder will be old news. And it’s not worthy of being in a trade publication. I will not mention any part of the situation. I promise you.” He could tell she was skeptical. “You look worried. How about I let you read it before I send it off Tuesday or Wednesday, okay?” He hoped this would assure her of his honesty.
“Okay, I guess,” she replied. Again the conversation took a turn. “How did you become a cop?”
“I majored in criminology in college, and after Navy Officer Candidate School, I went to the Fleet Antisubmarine Warfare School in San Diego, as the Base Security Officer, along with other duties. From there I went to the Naval Station, Pearl Harbor hoping to join the Naval Investigative Service. Unfortunately, I wasn’t selected, so I left the Navy and moved to Fremont, a Bay area suburb. My mother was ill, and we could help with her care. My wife's parents, lived about 40 miles away, so she and Sandi, our daughter, visited them regularly. I had taken a part-time job for a few months before we moved and I got hired in the LAPD.”
“Do you see your daughter often?” Alicia asked.
“Rarely. Emails or phone calls are the norm, lately. Our relationship has improved.”
She manipulated the conversation back to him, though he wanted to know about her. Before he could take control of the conversation, she had another question.
“Did you start as a detective?”
“No, but because of my major and Naval experience, I went on a fast track program that required a Master’s degree. That took a few years, but I got a degree and made detective in the Robbery-Homicide Division.”
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