Vail shook her head. “Severing the breasts is probably not personal.”
“Overkill, right? Excessive violence shows a relationship between the offender and the victim.”
“Up until very recently, that was our operating theory. We automatically considered overkill to be rooted in anger, and then we extrapolated that into a personal relationship. If the offender’s angry, he had to have something against that person. Bingo. He knew the vic, hated her or was pissed at her for something. But the new thinking is that psychopaths, who don’t feel any anger at all, are not necessarily angry at the victim. They’re angry at someone else and projecting onto the victim.
“Even more significant is that we’ve found that some psychopaths enjoy inflicting damage and injury—for them, there’s no anger or projection involved. So we have to be careful with calling severe violence ‘overkill.’ It could be a sign of anger, but not always. The other thing to consider,” Vail continued, “is that serial killers target strangers. There’s no relationship with the victim. It’s not personal because they don’t know the victim personally.”
“So you’re not buying this feud as a motive.”
“First of all, anger is not a motive. Revenge is, but anger is an affect, not a motive.” Vail looked over at the house. “The feud was a disagreement between the patriarchs, right? It’s what, forty years old? There’s just no energy left in the feud. So if we’re looking at revenge as the motive, and not anger, why wait all these decades to act? Montalvo’s an old guy. Unless we’re missing something, it doesn’t look like it filtered down to the kids. It might have to some degree—but at the same intensity? They’re aware of it, of the history, but it’s not really their battle—certainly not enough to kill over.”
“We need to dig deeper,” Dixon said. “Make sure you’re right.”
“Here’s something else to consider. There were no defensive injuries on the vic; at the same time, there was a lot of control involved in her capture, and the killing, as well as the postmortem mutilation of the body. The UNSUB was very much in control of Victoria and of himself. He was methodical and careful. He didn’t hack at the breasts with a machete, but he excised them neatly. That reinforces my feeling that there’s no anger in the crime scene. And the killer’s definitely satisfied with what he did there.”
“So if Victoria was killed because of a personal feud, you’re saying we’d see more damage, more anger, possibly even rage. But what if the killer got interrupted and had to leave?”
Vail smiled. “I had a case like that very recently. Dead Eyes. You hear of it?”
“I read some stuff about it. Several women killed. Virginia, right? A couple months ago?”
“Yeah.” Doesn’t come close to summing it up, but that’s good enough for now.
“That was you?” Dixon snapped her fingers. “With the state senator—”
“Yes again.” Vail waved her hand. She wasn’t sure if she was waving it to get off the topic or to . . . get off the topic. “So yeah, it’s possible the UNSUB heard something and freaked, like you said. But there’s the issue of the other body we dug out of that collapsed wine cave that was missing the toenail. So I don’t think that’s what we’re looking at here.”
“The choking, crushing injury is pretty violent. That could be a sign of anger.”
Vail considered that. “True. Let’s wait and see what your coroner tells us about the other body. Then we can make some additional judgments, build on our profile. Right now, with just two vics, it’s hard to be accurate in our conclusions. I can only tell you what it looks like, but the odds of me being wrong are higher with so few bodies. We need more bodies, more behavior, to evaluate.” Vail shook her head. “That didn’t come out right. I’m not wishing we had more bodies—”
“I know what you meant,” Dixon said.
“I can draw one conclusion with reasonable certainty. We’re dealing with an organized offender. Intelligent and potentially socially adept. Since there were no defensive wounds, it appears he was able to co-opt his victim in such a way that she doesn’t see him as a threat. In other words, he was capable of emotionally disarming her so she’d go along with him until he could strike. If she had any objections, he successfully neutralized them.”
Dixon’s phone began vibrating on her belt. She flipped it open and listened a moment. “Okay, meet me over there.”
She closed the phone and turned to Vail. “Warrant’s ready. Clerk is delivering it to Silver Ridge.”
VAIL AND DIXON arrived at the winery a moment ahead of the law clerk, who handed over the warrant in the parking lot.
“You sure we’re going to need that?” Vail asked. “We’re not talking about protected information.”
“Not personally. But it’s proprietary information important to Silver Ridge’s business. A place like this is going to want to protect its guest list. Eventually, they’d turn it over. But this makes it a whole lot faster and easier.”
As they got out of the car, Vail sighed and shook her head. “This is where my vacation started. And ended.”
“How so?”
“We were first on the scene, so to speak. We were on the tour and pairings dinner.”
“How’d you score a Silver Ridge tour? Pretty exclusive. And expensive.”
“It’s both. Robby’s got a friend here who’s got connections.”
“Nice friend to have.”
They took the warrant into the main building, walked through the large, windowed tasting room with low-hanging fiber-optic lights, and asked for the administration office. After Dixon badged the secretary, they were handed off to the wine sales manager.
A tall woman with chic black-rimmed glasses, she leaned back in her chair and appraised Vail and Dixon.
“I take it you’re not here to join our wine club.”
Vail glanced at the placard on the woman’s desk. “Thanks, Catherine. Perhaps another time. We would, however, like a copy of your guest list, specifically those people who’ve purchased tickets for wine cave tours or the wine-pairing dinners during the past five years.”
Catherine removed her glasses and studied Vail’s face. “You were here the other night, when Miguel found—”
“The dead body, yes,” Vail said. “I don’t know why, but wherever I go, violence seems to follow me. Let’s hope history doesn’t repeat itself.”
Catherine gave her a look Vail took to be somewhat hostile.
“So,” Dixon said. “Your guest list. We’ll also need a list of all your employees going back ten years.”
Catherine thinned her lips into a tense smile. “That’s not going to happen. I’m sure our customers don’t want their names ending up in some police file associated with a murder investigation—”
“I thought you might say that,” Dixon said. “So I had this prepared. Just for you.” Dixon grinned politely, then handed over the warrant as if it was a gift certificate.
But, of course, it wasn’t. The woman perused the document, then gave Dixon the same look she’d previously reserved for Vail. It didn’t look any better the second time around.
Catherine leaned forward, pressed two buttons on her phone, then lifted the receiver. “I need you to do something for me.” She proceeded to give the person instructions on what to print and where to find it. She tossed the warrant back at Dixon, who fumbled it before getting it in her grasp. To Dixon’s credit, she merely refolded the document and placed it on the desk. “No, no,” she said. “This is yours, for you to keep. Our gift to you.”
“Thanks so much for your cooperation,” Vail said. “It’s people like you that make our job just a tad bit tougher.”
TWENTY MINUTES LATER, lists in hand, they started back toward their car. Vail shoved the paperwork in her purse, then stopped as they passed through the tasting room. She went over to a sommelier who was handing a customer his just-purchased case of wine.
“Would you like a tasting?” the man asked.
I sure would. That’s
one reason I came to Napa. That and a vacation with Robby—who, come to think of it, still hasn’t returned my call.
“I’d love one,” Vail said.
Dixon joined her at the counter and gave her a questioning look.
The sommelier—whose name tag read Claude, turned to the wall of wine bottles behind him. Vail leaned closer to Dixon. “Go with me on this,” she said.
“Oh,” Claude said, now facing them. “I’m sorry, will that be two tastings?”
“Just the one,” Vail said. “My partner doesn’t drink.”
Dixon cleared her throat.
Claude lifted a bottle and cradled it in two hands so they could view the label. “I’m starting you off with our Pinot Noir, from our vineyard in the Carneros region.”
Claude poured it. Vail lifted the glass to her lips.
“No, no,” Dixon said. “I may not drink,” she said, eyeing Vail with a sharp look, “but I sure know how to taste wine.” She took the glass from Vail, placed it on the countertop, then swirled it rapidly. The red liquid shot centrifugally around the edges before coming to rest. “Aerates it,” Dixon said. “Releases the nose.” She handed the glass back to Vail.
“The nose?” Vail asked.
“The scent,” Claude said.
Come to think of it, Claude’s nose was a bit outstanding as well. Large and bulbous.
Vail took a sip. It slid across her tongue and down her throat effortlessly. “Very nice. Strawberries and . . . peach?”
“Yes, yes,” the man said. “Very good.”
Vail flared her nostrils. “A big, broad nose, too.”
Dixon rolled her eyes.
“Go ahead and take another sip. This time let it flow over the palate, see how the taste buds on different areas of your tongue pick up different flavors.”
Vail brought the glass to her mouth. Stopped, sniffed the wine. “So tell me a little about the winery,” Vail said. “Who owns it?”
“Oh,” Claude said, his face brightening. “It’s owned by two brothers and their sister, but Gray is the main one. He’s here every day—in fact, he was in here not five minutes before you came in.”
“Does Gray have a last name?”
“He’s always gone by Gray, or Grayson. He’s very friendly with all the staff. Good man, I’ve known him about eleven years now.”
Vail lifted the glass again to her lips. “Good to know. And Grayson’s last name?” She tilted the glass and took a mouthful, as Claude instructed. Concentrated on tasting it—couldn’t really see a difference—then swallowed.
“Oh, sorry,” Claude said. “Brix. Grayson Brix.”
Vail started coughing. Violent hacking, struggling to take a breath. She put her hand out and grabbed the counter, then bent forward to steady herself as she fought to keep her throat from closing from the burn of alcohol.
Dixon took the wineglass from her, then said to the sommelier, “Did you say Grayson Brix?”
“Is there a problem?” Claude asked.
Vail cleared her throat. In a raspy voice, she asked, “Any relation to Redmond Brix?”
“Anilise is their sister. Redd is the other brother, the silent partner. He’s also a lieutenant at the Napa County Sheriff’s Department—”
“Yeah, we got that part,” Vail said. She turned to Dixon and, still trying to get the burning edge off her throat, said, “I think we’d better get back.”
They turned and started to leave. Claude called after them. “The tasting fee is ten dollars—”
“Yeah, about that,” Vail said as she neared the doorway. “Tell Lieutenant Brix it’s on him.”
THEY WALKED IN SILENCE to the car. Vail’s hands were clenched and she was walking briskly through the parking lot.
As they approached the vehicle, Dixon said, “Well that’s kind of disturbing.”
“How could he keep that from us? He’s a cop, doesn’t he realize he has an obligation to be straight with us?”
They got into the Ford and Dixon started the engine. “I assume we’re headed back to the sheriff’s department?”
“Oh, yeah,” Vail said. The twenty minute ride would do her good. Right now she felt a pulsing in her temples. That meant her blood pressure was high. And that meant she needed some cooling off time before she confronted Brix. It was likely going to be somewhat contentious.
SIXTEEN
A s they drove down Highway 29, the wineries of Niebaum-Coppola on her right and Opus One flying by to her left, Vail turned to Dixon. “How solid is Brix?”
“You mean, can he be mixed up in this somehow? A serial killer?”
“No,” Vail said, “that makes no sense.”
“He doesn’t seem like the serial killer type.”
Vail hiked her brow. “No, he doesn’t.”
“Still, he may have a motive.”
“How well do you know him?”
Dixon shrugged. “Had a case with him a couple years ago. Since then, I’ve seen him around town from time to time. I like the guy. We shoot the breeze, bullshit. Cop talk. Nothing deep.”
They drove on another mile. “Are those railroad tracks?” Vail said, craning her neck to the right.
“Napa Valley Wine Train. It’s an old restored train that goes up and down the tracks, maybe an hour and a half each way, while people eat lunch or dinner. I did it once.”
“Looks like fun.” Vail reached for her phone to check for missed calls. None. “It’s not likely Brix is involved,” she said, “but it’s our job to consider him a potential suspect. Keep an eye on him.”
Vail removed the employee and guest lists, then shoved her purse beneath the seat. “You mind?”
Dixon shook her head. “I keep the car locked. Mine’s in the glovebox. Just push it all the way under.”
She drove on another minute, then Vail said, “You know, Brix really should recuse himself from the investigation.”
Dixon chuckled. “Good luck with that. Still, it might be better keeping him close, where we can keep half an eye on him.”
VAIL WAS THE FIRST through the front doors. She walked up to the desk, as she had the day earlier, only this time the clerk knew who she was. Nevertheless, the woman took a few seconds to acknowledge her.
When she finally came over to the desk, Vail asked, “Where’s Lieutenant Brix?”
“Would you like me to page him for you?”
Dixon came up behind Vail. “Come on, I know where he is.” She held up her cell phone. “Just spoke to him.” Dixon swiped her prox card and proceeded down the hall.
“You didn’t say anything about—”
“I told him we were in the building and we had something to discuss with him.”
They walked into the Major Crimes Task Force room. Redmond Brix was seated at the head of the conference table, a file splayed open in front of him. Beside him was a uniformed officer.
“Give us a moment,” Vail said to the cop.
The man looked at Vail, then Dixon, before coming to rest on Brix, who made the same rounds with his gaze. Brix nodded and the officer left.
Brix leaned back in his seat. “What’s up?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Vail said. “How about you own the winery where the vic was murdered, a winery that’s been locked in a decades-long family feud with Frederick Montalvo? And how about you . . . uh . . . forgot to mention any of this?”
“First of all, I’m more of an investor—”
“Bullshit,” Vail said. She placed both palms on the desk in front of her and peered at Brix. “You and your brother own it. True or false?”
“It’s not black and white—”
“Answer my question. Please,” she added.
“True.”
“Did you have anything to do with the murder of Victoria Cameron? Anything at all, ordering or facilitating a contract hit, killing her yourself, assisting your brother or anyone else—”
Brix rose from his seat. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”
“I’m part o
f a task force investigating the murder of a young woman. And you, a Lieutenant and the senior cop heading the investigation, decided to willfully hide facts from the rest of us.”
“I didn’t hide anything,” Brix said. “It’s just not relevant.”
“Redd,” Dixon said softly, “that’s for all of us to decide.”
“Scott knows. Stan knows. It’s not a secret.”
“Look,” Dixon said, “as soon as we discovered the vic was Victoria Cameron, you should’ve disclosed your ownership of the rival winery to everyone on the task force.”
“And you should recuse yourself from the investigation,” Vail said.
“Bull-shit,” he sang, drawing out the word.
Vail rested her hands on her hips. “How could you stay on, given what—”
“It’s not our call,” Dixon said. “If he wants to stay on the investigation, it’s not our decision.”
Vail had to concede that point. She had no authority here, other than to help and advise. But Dixon, as lead investigator, could have pressed the issue. Dixon had apparently decided not to pursue it—so Vail let it drop. “Fine,” she said. “Whatever. Any other secrets half the task force knows and the other half doesn’t?”
Brix ground his molars, perhaps waiting for his anger to fade. He turned to Vail with a heavy stare. “I’ve never had my integrity questioned. Never. And I’m not about to allow a Fibbie to dictate to me, or anyone else—”
“That’s enough.”
They all turned to the door, where Sheriff Stan Owens was standing.
“I don’t want to hear any more of that derogatory bullshit. I know the FBI doesn’t always get along with cops, and vice versa. But I respect both state and federal law enforcement. We’re all in it together. Learn to play on the same field.” He surveyed their faces. “Now, is there something you want to share with me?”
Vail looked at Brix. She wanted to disclose Brix’s conflict of interest.
But she didn’t want to be seen in the wrong light, particularly after Owens’s admonishment. Besides, this was Dixon’s fight, if she chose to take it on.
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