Vail caught a glimpse of a husky Hispanic worker who was bringing up the rear. She elbowed Robby and nodded toward the guy. “Something’s wrong, look at his face.” She moved against the stream of exiting guests and grabbed the man’s arm.
“What’s going on?” Vail asked.
“Nothing, signora, all’s good. Just a . . . the power is out, it’s very dark. Please, go back to the tasting room —”
“It’s okay,” Robby said. “We’re cops.”
“Policia?”
“Something like that.” Vail held up her FBI credentials and badge. “What’s wrong?”
“Who say there is something wrong?”
“It’s my job to read people. Your face tells a story, senor. Now—” she motioned with her fingers. “What’s the deal?”
He looked toward the mouth of cave, where most of the guests had already exited. “I did not tell you, right?”
“Of course not. Now . . . tell us, what?”
“A body. A
“How do you know the person’s dead?”
“Because she cut up bad, senora. Her . . . uh,
Robby looked over the guy’s shoulder, off into the darkness. “Are you sure?”
“I found the body, yes, I am sure.”
“What’s your name?”
“Miguel Ortiz.”
“You have a flashlight, Miguel?” Vail asked.
The large man rooted out a set of keys from his pocket, pulled off a small LED light and handed it to her.
“Wait here. Don’t let anyone else past you. You have security at the winery?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Then call them on your cell,” Vail said, as she and Robby backed away, deeper into the tunnel. “Tell them to shut this place down tight. No one in or out. No one.”
AS A FEDERAL AGENT, Karen Vail was required to carry her sidearm wherever she traveled. But Robby, being a state officer, transported his weapon in a locked box, and it had to remain there; he was not permitted to carry it on his person. This fact was not lost on Vail as she removed her sidearm from her Velcro fanny pack. She reached down to her ankle holster and pulled a smaller Glock 27 and handed it to Robby.
They moved slowly through the dim cave. The walls were roughened gunite, dirt brown and cold to the touch. The sprayed cement blend gave the sense of being in a real cave, save for its surface uniformity.
“You okay in here?” Robby asked.
“Don’t ask. I’m trying not to think about it.” But she had no choice. Vail had developed claustrophobia after the recent incident in the Dead Eyes Killer’s lair. Though she never had experienced such intense anxiety, it was suddenly a prominent part of her life. Going into certain parking garages, through commuter tunnels, and even into crammed elevators became a fretful experience. But it wasn’t consistent. Sometimes it was worse than others.
Overall, it was inconvenient—and no fun admitting you had such an irrational weakness. But she was now afflicted with the malady and she did her best to control it.
Sometimes, though, she thought she might actually claw through walls to get out. Getting squeezed into an elevator was the worst. For some reason, people didn’t mind cramming against you if the alternative meant waiting another minute or two for the next car.
Vail slung her purse over her shoulder so it rested on her back, then moved the weak light around, taking care not to tread on anything that might constitute evidence.
“Maybe we should call it in,” Robby said. “Let the locals handle it.”
“The locals? This isn’t exactly Los Angeles, Robby. I seriously doubt they have a whole lot of murders out here. If the vic’s been cut like Miguel says, the local cops’ll be out of their league. They’re going to look at the crime scene but won’t know what they’re seeing.”
“Beyond the obvious, you mean.”
“The obvious to me and the obvious to a homicide detective are not the same things, Robby. You know that. When you encounter something unusual—no matter what profession you’re talking about—would you rather hire someone who’s seen that unusual thing a thousand times, or someone who’s only seen it once or twice?”
“If we do find something, we won’t have a choice. We’ve got no jurisdiction here.”
“Yeah, well, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”
They turned left down another tunnel, which opened into a large storage room of approximately a thousand square feet. Hundreds of French oak barrels sat on their sides, stacked one atop the other, three rows high and what must’ve been fifty rows long. A few candelabras with low-output lightbulbs hung from above, providing dim illumination. The walls and ceiling were constructed of roughened multicolored brick, with multiple arched ceilings that rose and plunged and joined one another to form columns every fifteen feet, giving the feel of a room filled with majestic gazebos.
A forklift sat dormant on the left, pointing at an opening along the right wall, where, amidst a break in the barrels, was another room. They moved toward it, Vail shining the flashlight in a systematic manner from left to right as they walked. They stepped carefully, foot by foot, to avoid errant hoses and other objects like . . . a mutilated woman’s body.
They entered the anteroom and saw a lump in the darkness on the ground.
Robby said, “That bridge you just mentioned? I think we just came to it.”
“Shit,” Vail said.
“You didn’t think Miguel was pulling our leg, did you? He looked pretty freaked out.”
“No, I figured he saw something. I was just hoping it was a sack of potatoes, and in some kind of wine- induced stupor, he thought it was a dead woman.”
“With her breasts cut off?”
“Hey, I’m an optimist, okay?”
Robby looked at her. “You’re an optimist?”
As they stood there, Vail couldn’t take her eyes off the body. She’d come to Napa to relax, to get away from work. Yet lying on the cold ground a little over twenty feet away was an all-too-obvious reminder of what she’d come here to escape.
Then she mentally slapped herself. She was pissed at having her vacation ruined. The woman in front of her had her life ruined.
Vail took a deep breath. “You have cell service? We need to call this in.”
Robby flipped open his phone. “No bars.”
“No bars in Napa? Some other time and place, that would be funny.” She shook her head. “I can’t believe I just said that.”
“Humor is the best defense mechanism. Honestly, this sucks, Karen. You needed the time away. It was my idea to come here. I’m sorry.”
“As our colleague Mandisa Manette is fond of saying, ‘Sometimes life just sucks the big one.’” Vail’s thoughts momentarily shifted to Manette, how she was doing in recovery. It didn’t last long, as the snap of Robby’s phone closing brought her back to the here and now.
“Okay,” Vail said, “one of us goes, just to see if she’s alive. We don’t want to totally destroy the crime scene.”
“Might as well be you,” Robby said. “Get a close look, see if you see anything worthwhile.”