Crush

THEY TOOK BRIX’S CAR and arrived in Sonoma thirty minutes later. The drive was as picturesque as any of the views they had seen along Highway 29. Vineyards, rolling hills, mountains. And today, the hint of sun burning through the cloud cover.

“Welcome to Sonoma,” Dixon said.

Vail craned her neck around, taking in the small and medium-sized residential homes. “Are there wineries in Sonoma, too?”

Despite the seriousness of their task ahead, Brix and Dixon, sitting beside one another in the front seat, looked at each other and laughed.

“I take it that was a stupid question,” Vail said.

“That’d be a ‘yes’ twice over,” Brix said. “First, it was a stupid question. This entire valley is wine country. Second, Sonoma is considered the birthplace of the California wine industry.”

Vail turned away and looked out at the Readers Bookstore they were passing on the right. “Oh.”

“Up ahead is the downtown plaza,” Dixon said, as Brix turned right onto First Street East. “Besides historic wineries, Sonoma also has some interesting shops and galleries. And lots of good restaurants.”

Vail pointed at a ground-hugging white adobe building with a large cross protruding from its roof. “What did that sign say? Mission San Francisco?”

“Mission San Francisco Solano,” Brix said. “An old church.”

Dixon threw Brix a look. “Give me a break. Calling that a church would be like calling Silver Ridge winery a ‘grape juice manufacturing plant.’” She flicked the side of his head with a finger.

“Hey,” Brix said.

Dixon turned to Vail. “California History 101. There are twenty-one missions. That one’s the last one built— and the first one built under Mexico’s rule, in the 1820s. It’s also where the very first vineyards in the valley were planted. By monks who lived in the mission.”

“Not to interrupt the history lesson,” Brix said, “but we’ve got a mission of our own.” He nodded ahead. “We’re coming up on Ortiz’s house.” He slowed the car.

“Which one?” Dixon asked.

“Wait,” Brix said, braking to a crawl. He leaned forward, peering in the right side view mirror. “He’s right there. Behind us, I passed him.”

Miguel Ortiz was walking the sidewalk, about thirty feet away. Brix pulled over to the curb.

Dixon popped her door. “You sure that’s him?”

Brix shoved the shift into park and got out. He turned toward Ortiz, then caught Dixon’s gaze. “Definitely.”

Ortiz must have recognized Brix’s voice, because he spun around. His eyes found the car . . . the look on Brix’s face, the look on Dixon’s.

And then he ran.

“Shit,” Brix said. “Where the fuck does he think he’s gonna go?” Brix jumped back into the Ford, jammed the gearshift into drive, and accelerated. He swung the car around. Dixon pursued on foot. And Vail unstrapped her seatbelt.

Ortiz crossed the street into the park that sat in the center of the square.

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