Velocity (Karen Vail #3)(41)

As Dixon followed Vail back to the car, Vail pulled off the Gold Toes and shoved them deep into her pocket.

“Neat trick with the socks,” Dixon said. “I get the feeling you’ve done this before.”

“Nope. First time.” And hopefully the last.

After they had climbed into the Ford and slammed their doors, two Sonoma Police Department cruisers pulled up to the Guevara estate, light bars flashing. Vail and Dixon laid their seats back. To any of the cops who cared to look, theirs was an empty vehicle parked at the curb a block and a half away. While their Ford was somewhat out of place in a tony neighborhood like this one, it was dark and empty. The police were more likely focused on the object of their concern: the compromised house, with a peripheral eye peeled for fleeing suspects.

“How long do you want to hang out?” Vail asked.

“Let’s wait for them to get inside, then I’ll fire her up and we’ll back away slowly. Hopefully they didn’t grab our plate.”

“Too far away.”

Dixon lifted her head and peered over the dash. Apparently satisfied the area was clear, she reached forward and started the engine, then backed away as planned, using the side view mirrors as a guide. When they had gotten another two blocks, Dixon angled around a corner and swung the car around, headed away from the scene of their crime.

“You gonna show me what you found?”

“It was dark and I didn’t have a whole lot of time, but I thought it might be important.”

“Let me see it.”

Dixon pulled to the curb, then flicked on the dome light. She stuck her hand inside her blouse, extracted a piece of folded paper, and handed it to Vail.

Vail unfurled it.

“It’s just an address,” Dixon said. “I think it’s Ian Wirth’s. His home.” Dixon thought a moment. “Wirth, Victoria Cameron, and Isaac Jenkins were the only three people who were against Superior getting that bottling contract. Cameron and Jenkins were killed. If I’m right, and this is Wirth’s home address . . . we may be on to something. There’d be no reason for Guevara to have it. Right?”

Vail sat there staring at the page. Off somewhere in the distance she heard what Dixon was saying. But she was seeing—and thinking— something else. Because in front of her was an address, all right.

But what caught her attention was that it was in Robby’s handwriting.





27


Are you sure?” Dixon asked. “Robby’s handwriting?”

Vail wiped away the tears that had pooled in her lower lids. “No doubt whatsoever.”

Dixon looked away, facing the windshield. The interior dome light made the glass into a mirror from which their distorted reflections stared back at them. Neither one looked pleased at this news.

Vail glanced at the clock. “I leave for the airport in six hours. How the hell am I gonna solve this in six hours?”

“I know this is hard for you, Karen. It’d be hard for me, too. But have faith in us. This case doesn’t have to be wrapped up before you get on that plane.”

“The longer Robby is missing, the less chance we have of finding him. And if he is around here—in Napa, in California, on the West Coast—the thought of flying twenty-five hundred miles away is . . . ” She shook her head. “It’s like I’m abandoning him. I don’t know if that makes sense.”

Dixon placed a hand on Vail’s forearm. “Of course it does. I’m sorry. But I promise you, I won’t give up. We won’t give up.”

Vail looked down at the paper bearing Robby’s handwriting. “What does this mean?”

“At its most basic level, Robby wrote someone’s address on a piece of paper and it ended up in César Guevara’s possession. At the moment, that’s all it means.”

That’s not all it means. There’s something here. But as has been the case this past week, nothing adds up. Nothing makes sense. We catch the serial killer, who says, “There’s more to this than you know.” And he’s being truthful. So what’s wrong with me? Why can’t I figure it out?

Dixon pulled her phone and started tapping away. She stopped, dropped it into her lap, and waited. A moment later, it buzzed and she lifted it to her ear. “Yeah.” She listened a second and then said, “Okay. Meet you there.” Dixon hung up, then yanked the gearshift into drive.

Vail, however, was still staring at the paper.



BRIX SUGGESTED THEY MEET at a restaurant, since none of the task force members had eaten anything for several hours. Dixon pulled into the parking lot, where a large landmark sign read “Brix - Restaurant Gardens Wine Shop.” Had this been another time, she would’ve thought Brix’s choice of eating at the Brix restaurant curious, but with the burden of the past few days weighing heavily, she was only concerned about getting some glucose into her brain and figuring out what the hell was going on.

As they approached the entrance along the dark walkway, patio chairs and coffee tables were occupied by a couple of women toking on cigarettes. Behind them, a wall of windows showcased a brightly lit gift shop stocked with tasteful artwork, wine racks, and clothing.

Near the large wood plank entry doors stood three men huddled in a circle: Brix, Gordon, and Mann.

Dixon and Vail greeted them, then Mann held open the door and they all filed in. The interior was well-appointed in warm woods and a wine motif. Oversize half barrels fitted with red upholstered seats lined the aisle to the left, serving as individual booths. Above, dozens of Chardonnay-shaped bottles jutted out from a central light fixture. Off to the right, on the far side of the restaurant, marble-topped oval tables sat in front of intimate two-seater couches. Perfect for the romantic couple winding down a day of wine tasting and sightseeing.