Vail couldn’t help but let a smile tilt her lips. “I try not to do that. Makes it hard to get along with people.” She shook her head. “Scratch that, too. Guess it doesn’t help. But to answer your question, yeah, I can’t help but do it. Like Scott Fuller. He seems like a know-it-all.”
“Oh, yeah. Boy Wonder, everything handed to him on a gold platter. He’s read all the books, can probably even recite what chapters that shit comes from. But he’s light on experience.”
“Book smarts, not street smarts. He’s certainly got the profiling stuff down—but it’s textbook stuff, dated info, like he read all the Underwood, Douglas, and Ressler books and committed them to memory.”
Dixon nodded. “But here’s the wrinkle. He’s the stepson of Stan Owens.”
Vail tilted her head. “Really. See, now that’s good to know.”
“Which is how he’s ascended the ranks so quickly.”
“And one to be careful around,” Vail said.
“But Ray Lugo’s a good guy. Been here all his life, started out as an underage migrant field worker picking grapes. Parents were illegal, but he was born here, so he’s a U.S. citizen. He worked hard, did well in school, and went to the Academy, became a cop.”
“And here he is, a sergeant. Very impressive.”
“Whereas Fuller had it handed to him, Ray’s earned it.”
“And you?” Vail asked.
“Me? I don’t like to talk about myself.”
“Neither do I. But—”
“But if you had to draw conclusions about me—”
“I’d say you’re intuitive. You’re diligent, detail oriented. You’ve been doing this job awhile but you’re not bored with it. And . . .”
Dixon slowed for a stopped truck in front of her. “And what?”
“And you’re intimidated by being a woman in a male-dominated profession.”
“Is that some sort of . . . what do they call it, projection?”
Vail laughed. “Maybe.”
“But you’re right. Sort of. Still, I have no trouble putting one of these guys in their place if they get out of line. But it really hasn’t been a problem.”
“But it was, once.”
“Once.”
That’s all she said, and Vail let it drop. She watched more vineyards roll by, then asked, “So how long have you been with the DA’s office?”
“A few months.”
Vail lifted an eyebrow. “I take it you were in law enforcement before that.”
Dixon glanced at Vail.
Vail knew the look: Dixon was measuring her answer. There was a story behind this, and she was deciding how fine a filter to use . . . how much she would share and how much she would hold back.
“In a nutshell,” Dixon finally said, “I was born and raised here, in the valley. I was with the sheriff’s department for five years, then took a job with Vallejo PD. I was promoted to detective and a few years later I transferred to the DA’s office. So there you go. My law enforcement pedigree.”
Vail figured she had Dixon’s reaction pegged correctly: A detective did not usually transfer out of her department to become an investigator for the district attorney unless she was retiring from that agency, or injured, or in search of a quieter, safer existence. There was definitely more to her transfer than she was relating.
But Vail didn’t want to press it, since it was their first time having a conversation—and because Dixon was turning right at Montalvo Villa Estate Wines, a large winery set back from Highway 29, majestic in its pristine setting and architecture. Its landmark sign established its founding in 1931.
Vail and Dixon drove down the long, paved roadway lined by impeccably maintained vineyards. Placards mounted on a wood fence that ran the length of the road labeled the vineyards with what Vail assumed were family names: Genevieve’s Family Vineyard, and, fifty yards further, Mona’s Estate Vineyard.
“Anything I need to know about the family?”
“They’ve got three residences on-site. The parents, Frederick and Mona, have the main house. The two smaller houses, if you can even use the word ‘small’ in this setting, belong to their daughter Genevieve and her husband, and their son Phillip and his wife. The other son lives off-site, as did Victoria and her husband, Kevin.”
“Any reason why two siblings get to live on the family estate and two don’t?”
“No idea. They’re private people, for the most part. But Victoria and her husband purchased their own winery, so maybe that ruffled some family feathers. Frederick has been around in the region a lot longer than someone like Robert Mondavi, but he never got the attention or the respect Mondavi got. I’m not singing the blues for Frederick, though. He’s done just fine lurking in the shadows, so to speak.”
“If he values his privacy and shrouds himself in mystery, he can’t take on the persona of a colorful, influential personality. Sounds like that isn’t what he wants.”
Dixon pulled the car into a spot and shoved the gearshift forward. “Oh, he wants it. But he wants it to come to him. The attention, that is. But he won’t go in search of it. I guess it’s a different way of going about getting attention: His behavior, the mystery and privacy, has promoted some of the attention he claims to want to avoid. People wonder. The lack of access produces greater interest.”
They got out of the car, walked to the winery’s administrative offices, identified themselves, and asked to see Frederick Montalvo. The office manager raised an eyebrow as she perused Vail’s credentials, then was on the phone to her boss. A moment later, she said, “I’ll take you back.”
They were led through strategically lit, walnut-paneled, high-ceilinged corridors. The woman stopped at a room at the far end of the hall, rapped the wooden door three times, then opened it. Vail stepped in after Dixon, and the scene before her stopped her short. The entire far wall consisted of what appeared to be one expansive glass pane—possibly twenty feet wide and fifteen feet high. Beyond the window stood the vines of an endless vineyard, stretching back and ending at a steep climbing hill, itself covered with neat rows of grapevines. Vail thought she was looking at a three-dimensional painting of unrivaled beauty.
Dixon reached out and shook the hand of a thin, silver-haired man seated at a desk that was half the size of the window, impressive in its own right: hand-carved legs with a front that was, in relief, a depiction of a group of men tending to vines on rolling hills. She quickly realized she was looking at a carpenter’s representation of the view beyond the glass.
At first glance, the man looked to be about seventy, but something about the way he moved made Vail think he might’ve been older, or stricken with a muscle-wasting disease. He leveraged himself with both hands on his desk to rise slowly from his leather chair. “Any news on my daughter?”
Dixon stepped forward. She was the local cop here; she would be the one to deliver the news.
But before she could speak, the phone buzzed. Montalvo looked down at the desk, thought about whether to answer it, then lifted the receiver. “Yes.”
He listened a moment—Vail could hear a loud, distressed male voice at the other end of the line—and she realized what must be happening. Lugo had just informed Kevin Cameron of his wife’s death. Frederick Montalvo, family patriarch and the woman’s father, got the first call.
Montalvo’s face drained of color, his left hand slipped from the desktop, and the phone dropped from his grip as his legs gave out. He hit the carpeted floor with a thud—with Dixon and Vail quickly at his side.
Vail tossed down her purse, then checked Montalvo’s pulse while Dixon lifted his legs. His skin was clammy, but judging by his slow and regular pulse, Vail felt he had fainted rather than had a heart attack. He opened his eyes, blinked, and stared at Vail, who was hovering over his face.
“Mr. Montalvo, are you okay?” she asked.
“I—my daughter. Is she—is she? . . .”
“Yes. We’re deeply sorry.” She cradled the back of his neck. “Come on, let’s sit up. Slowly.”
Montalvo, with Vail’s help, moved into a seated position, still on the floor. He put his head between his knees while Vail supported his back. And then he began to weep.
Vail and Dixon shared a look. Vail could tell that Dixon hated this as much as she did. There was just no good way to deliver this kind of news. The reaction often ranged from outright disbelief to massive heart attacks, and
