Velocity (Karen Vail #3)(23)

Dixon brought a napkin to her lips. “Just a guess, here. But unlike the Napa Valley Vintners, the federal application part is mandatory.”

Wirth grinned. “That’d be correct. And because of that, they’ll know everything there is to know about the owners. But you’d also need the state’s approval. ABC—Alcohol and Beverage Control. Heck, even if you just change or modify the name of your winery, you have to file new applications. You’re not officially a winery until they approve your apps and say you are.”

“When do you have to file the paperwork?” Vail asked, then sucked deeply on her shake. The dark chocolate high washed over her.

Wirth tilted his head in thought. “That’s tricky to answer. The owners could purchase land and get everything drawn up and ready to go. Architectural plans, engineering studies, and so on. But there’s a gray area. I spoke to the TTB once and they told me I was supposed to have the applications in place before I purchased equipment. But I wasn’t about to spend two hundred grand until I knew I had a viable and approved winery. So I called back, got someone different, and received a totally different answer. A colleague of mind said the same thing. Different people, different information.”

Dixon sighed. “Nothing’s ever simple, is it?”

Vail vacuumed out the last of her shake with a sucking sound. “Let’s take one step at a time. See if we can get something from the Napa Valley Vintners. If not, Plan B is TTB. That fails, Plan C would be ABC.”

Dixon smirked. “You trying to be funny?”

“I’m not in a laughing mood,” Vail said.

Wirth lifted his napkin and wiped his hands. “Anything else I can answer for you?”

Vail rose. “If there is, we’ll give you a call. Thanks for lunch. Mind if we run? We’re up against a deadline here.”

“Not at all.” Wirth stood and shook both their hands. “Good luck.”

As Vail headed back to the car, she thought, A little good luck sure wouldn’t hurt.





15


He did not have long. For twenty minutes, he had been driving around searching for the perfect setting. If he was going to make the splash that he felt he deserved, which meant preventing the police from containing news of his kills, he had to place the body where it would be seen by the average passerby. After much thought, he settled on just the spot.

The body in the trunk would stiffen, that much he was sure of. It would make his task that much more difficult, if not impossible. How long until rigor mortis set in? He wasn’t sure. Best to get there quickly, do his deed, and leave.

Zipping along Silverado Trail, he passed a string of wineries—Clos Du Val and Hagafen on the left, Luna on the right—before the road dead-ended at Trancas Street. He swung right and followed it over the Napa River, then approached the traffic light and hung a quick turn onto Soscol Avenue, barely beating the yellow.

But apparently the Napa police officer behind him observed otherwise.

He glanced at the flashing lights in his rearview mirror, then considered his options. He had a fresh corpse in his trunk, and he had murdered a cop—though he doubted they’d already found her body. It couldn’t be about that, not yet.

Floor it? That was one option—try to evade capture. But if he acted normal and polite, there’d be no reason for the cop to search his vehicle. All he had done wrong, in the eyes of the law, was run a red light. Marginally, at that.

He turned right into the adjacent parking lot and brought the old Mercedes diesel to a stop. The cruiser pulled in behind him. He watched as the cop shoved the gear shift into park, then brought the radio to his mouth.

Good thing he hadn’t driven the minivan. By now it could be listed as stolen—and besides, there was no place to hide a dead body.

He looked up. The cop was still chattering away on his radio. He tapped his fingers on the dash. Come on, get out and move this along. Ask for license and registration and send him on his way. Simple. Easy. He’d pay the fine without dispute. He had an important appointment to keep, before the body in his trunk went stiff.

He waited, took a few deep breaths to calm his escalating nerves, and watched as the cop finally—finally—got out of his car and headed toward his window. He rolled it down, stuck his head out, and grinned broadly.

“Morning, sir. Any idea what you did wrong back there?”

Absolutely, he did. Why play games? “I assume I didn’t quite make it through that yellow in time.”

“Correct. License and registration, please.”

He handed them over. “Sorry, officer. Guess I wasn’t paying attention. Won’t happen again.”

“Napa 2X1,” the man said into his shoulder-clipped radio.

The dispatch operator responded: “2X1, go ahead.”

The officer read the pertinent information into the handset. He received a response of no wants or warrants. “I’m going to give you a citation,” the cop said. “Be more careful when you approach an intersection, and pay attention to those yellow lights. Yellow means slow . . . ”

He smiled and nodded. Just a polite citizen with a dead body in his trunk who made an honest mistake and committed a moving violation. “Yes, sir. Will do, sir.” He sat back and waited while the officer completed the ticket. Wiped a collection of sweat beads from his forehead.