Crush kv-2

by Alan Jacobson

  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 just 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 t
he 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

  A s 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.’”

  “‘Won’t carry.’ Sounds like a motion.”

  Vail traced backwards through the notes with an index finger. “Yes. Motion by PO. Second DY.” She turned another page, then went back. “Doesn’t say what the motion was.”

  “Is there a date?”

  Vail flipped back to the prior page. “January fifteenth.”

  Dixon nodded. “Okay, we’ll start with that. Keep looking.”

  A few moments later, Vail said, “There are notes talking about ‘natural vs. fake. Big difference.’” She looked over at Dixon. “What do you think, are they talking about breasts?”

  Dixon smiled. “There’s definitely a big difference, but something tells me that’s not what the board was deliberating.”

  “Probably not. But it looks like it was another point of contention according to the margin notes.”

  “Good,” Dixon said. “We’ve got some things to discuss with our board president. Let’s see what she has to say.”

  FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, they arrived at Wedded Bliss Estates Winery. The driveway was long and narrow, and bordered on both sides by a continuous row of wine bottles, mounted single file and upside down, in the top of the wall.

  “Neat idea,” Dixon said. “That’s pretty cool.”

  As they continued on down the road, Vail realized they hadn’t yet seen the best Wedded Bliss had to offer. She pointed ahead. “Now that’s pretty cool.”

  The building was carved into the side of a mountain—but that wasn’t its most unusual feature. Where the mountainside once was, a fifty-foot glass enclosure now stood, forming the entire front of the winery.

  “Looks like the mountain has a giant window built into it,” Vail said.

  They found a parking spot and headed down the crushed bottle-and-grout walkway that led to the entrance.

  “I’ve gotta take Robby here before we head out of town.”

  “You’re gonna bring your boyfriend to ‘Wedded Bliss’? He may get the wrong idea.”

  Vail chuckled. “You ever been here?”

  “I’ve seen pictures and read about it, but this is outside my jurisdiction and tucked away from the main drag. All I know is the building’s won all sorts of architectural awards and the wine consistently scores over ninety points from Wine Spectator and a number of known wine critics.”

  They walked through the double wide three-quarter-inch glass doors, which slid apart as they approached. After moving inside, they both stopped—the view was breathtaking. The entire interior was made of glass—or its polymer equivalent. The staircase that spiraled up to each of the four stories, the elevator, the tasting stations . . . all pristine and clear.

  “Must be a bitch to clean,” Dixon said.

  “Gives new meaning to the saying, ‘I don’t do windows.’”

  Dixon pointed at the wall nearest them. “You can see the mountainside, through the glass walls. Like one of those cutaways, a slice right through the side of the mountain.”

  Indeed, the mountain was hollowed out to accommodate the large building, and the inner heart of the granite and dirt was visible. This place truly was an architectural marvel.

  Vail pointed at something above their heads. “Look at those tree roots.”

  “Welcome to Wedded Bliss. May I help you?”

  They turned to find a man dressed in a black suit, silver tie, and white shirt.

  “Yes,” Vail said. She splayed open her credentials case. “We have an appointment with Crystal Dahlia.” Having said it aloud for the first time, Vail now wondered if that was the woman’s real name. Given the appearance of
the winery, she was beginning to doubt it.

  They were led up the staircase to the second level, then down a hallway. The floor was made of sand-blasted glass blocks, preserving the building’s look but retaining function. Walking on regular glass would be dangerously slick and the traffic of hard leather and dirt would eventually scratch the surface to hell.

  The suited gentleman led them to a room and told them to wait inside, that Ms. Dahlia was finishing up a phone call. He stepped up to a wet bar, removed two glasses, and poured them wine.

  “Oh,” Dixon said. “I don’t think we should. We’re on duty—”

  “Nonsense,” Vail said. “I came to Napa to go wine tasting. We’ve had a few interruptions . . .” . . . a few murders . . . “but I think we’ve earned this.” She reached forward and took the glass.

  Dixon waved him off.

  Before Dixon could object further, Vail put the glass to her lips and swallowed a mouthful.

  “Haven’t I taught you anything? At least do it right.”

  “Oh, yeah. Nose. Smell.” She lifted the glass to her face and sniffed. “Hmm.” Sniffed some more. “Raspberries. Berries. I’m getting berries. That’s it.” She took another drink.

  “Small sips,” Dixon said with the tone of a scolding teacher. “Let it float over your tongue. Taste it, swish it a bit.”

  “No matter how I do it, this is good.” She took another drink, smaller this time, and let it float, then swallowed. “Yeah, that was a little better. But I’m still only getting berries.”

  “Actually, berries is correct. Fruit forward.”

  The voice came from behind them. They turned to see an attractive, slender woman in a white dress, a couple of years on the right side of forty.

  “A hint of cinnamon,” the woman said. “And a little cherry.”

  Vail rose and turned. A little too quickly, as the wine was already giving her a slight buzz.

  “You must be Crystal,” Vail said, struggling to keep a straight face.

  “Are you Karen or Roxxann?”

  “I’m Agent Vail. This is Investigator Dixon.”

  Crystal pursed her lips. “I see.” She took their hands with a firm shake, then motioned them to follow her. They walked down the hall to a glass-enclosed suite. The doors slid open and revealed an office with photos of vines and grapes and wineglasses, in clear frames mounted on the wall with suction cups. At the end of the room was a desk. A . . . glass desk.