Brix nodded. “That’s pretty much true. But they’ve been around a long time, as long as we’ve been contracting out bottling for Silver Ridge. Like most mobile bottlers, they own a fleet of semis outfitted to do bottling, corking, and labeling on-site at the wineries that contract with them. It’s pretty lucrative, because they can turn out a lot of finished product pretty efficiently, and very reasonably. They make their money on volume. Kind of like the Costco model. Small margins, high volumes. And the wineries don’t have to invest in the equipment themselves, so everyone’s happy.”
Dixon rubbed her eyes. “Any reason to look into them further?”
“Waste of time,” Lugo said.
Brix raised an eyebrow. “Never heard of any complaints. You want more, we can have Agbayani do some checks.”
Lugo shook his head. “I’m telling you. Waste of time. Just like Ortiz.”
Dixon twisted her lips in thought, then said, “Give Eddie a ring, have him do some digging. Meantime, let’s focus our energies on what’s most likely to net us something useful.”
“And on that front,” Vail said, “we might have something. A VICAP hit in San Francisco. I’ve got us an appointment with the detective who’s got a cold case from ’98. Rooney already spoke with him. We’re meeting him in an hour and a half.”
“Then we better get our asses in gear,” Dixon said. “Catch up with you later?”
Brix nodded. “Keep me posted.”
Dixon, right hand resting atop the steering wheel, pointed out the windshield with her index finger. “Meeting place is just up ahead. We’ll be there in a couple minutes.”
Vail turned another page in the file Kevin Cameron had given them. “Can’t say any of this is helpful, other than the Superior issue we covered with Crystal—which I’m not even sure was helpful at all. Problem is, a lot of this is in shorthand or some kind of abbreviation-speak Victoria devised for herself.”
“We’re not out of ammo yet,” Dixon said. “And we may get lucky. That sit-down with the other board member might lead somewhere. And maybe this detective will have something that’ll put it all into focus.” As the freeway curved, she nudged Vail on the forearm. “Look up. You’re gonna miss the view.”
“Whoa,” Vail said, leaning forward in the seat. The Golden Gate Bridge swung into sight behind, and between, the mountains that sat on both sides of the 101 freeway. “I’ve never seen it in person.”
“Just wait,” Dixon said. “Better views around the bend.”
They drove up the two-lane mountain road and saw a knot of tourists walking along a dirt and gravel path. Dixon hung a left into the turnout parking area and slid her vehicle into the remaining slot.
Inspector Friedberg was standing beside his unmarked car in a black overcoat, a cigarette in his hand, and a chocolate brown woolly pulled down over his head. “Robert Friedberg,” he said, shifting the cigarette to his left hand and offering his right.
“This is Roxxann Dixon and I’m Karen Vail.”
Friedberg returned the cigarette to his smoking hand. “Agent Rooney said you’ve never been here before.”
“Not really,” Vail said. “Not any kind of trip that counts. This was supposed to be it—a vacation.”
“Welcome to the Golden Gate. Come on, we can walk and talk, I can show you one of my favorite views in the state.” He led them down a dirt path that curved and elevated, climbing toward a soil and cement plateau that opened up to a view of the Pacific.
Vail stopped and took in the 180 degree panorama, from the brightly glinting white and gray skyscrapers of San Francisco off to the left, to the scores of small white sailboats listing in the bay, heading back after a day on the ocean. Oh—and there was a huge orange-red bridge splayed out before her. Larger than life, it seemingly grew out of an outcropping of mountain beneath her feet and spanned the bay to her right, landing somewhere on the San Francisco shore at two o’clock. A large cargo ship was passing beneath at midspan, moving slowly but steadily, leaving two parallel, relatively small wakes behind it.
From their perch, they were standing midway up the North Art Deco tower, looking down onto the roadway and the dozens of cars below.
She looked over at Friedberg, who was sucking on his cigarette. A stiff wind blew against her face. “Amazing view. I’ve never stood above a bridge and looked down on it from so high up. That color is so . . . dominating and unusual. Not quite golden, though.”
Friedberg took another long drag, then blew it out the side of his mouth. The smoke caught the wind and rode around his neck. “Golden Gate refers to the strait below us, the entrance to the bay from the Pacific. The color’s called International Orange, whatever that means. They’ve only repainted it once, since 1937. Know how long it took?” He turned to Dixon, who was standing slightly behind Vail. “You’re from around here.”
Dixon shrugged. “Haven’t the slightest.”
“Twenty-seven years.”
Vail nodded. “Job security. And a great view.”
“Now they’ve got an army of thirty-eight painters. Their whole job is touching up the bridge. It’s the salt air. Very corrosive.”
“You know a lot about the bridge,” Vail said.
“A buddy of mine is one of those thirty-eight painters.” He shook his head and laughed. “Marty says the damn thing can sway twenty-seven feet to either side on a windy day. And the roadway can drop about ten feet when fully loaded—”
“Inspector,” Vail said. “I love the view. It’s—” she turned and looked back at the expanse before them —“among the more beautiful I’ve ever seen. But the flip side to all this beauty is the killer Investigator Dixon and I are trying to find. While I’d love to sightsee and get the VIP tour, I just don’t have the time. No offense.”
Friedberg sucked hard on his cigarette. His eyes were riveted to Vail’s. He blew away the smoke, then nodded. “Fair enough. Totally understand. So let me get right to it.” He turned to face the bridge and stood there a long moment without speaking. Finally, he threw down his cigarette and ground the butt into the dirt. “Follow me.”
Friedberg picked up the squished cigarette, then trudged off, away from the bridge, up the inclined frontage to a sunken, below-ground-level concrete complex. A low-slung steel pipe fence surrounded the area, most likely to prevent a kid or careless adult from falling over the edge and landing below on the cement ground.
Friedberg tossed the spent butt into a garbage pail, then led the way down a set of stairs. Directly in front of them was a twenty-foot raised circle of concrete, with an inner ring of thick, rusted bolts protruding from the surface. Off to the right, one level lower, was a central roadway that split barracks-style quarters on both sides. But the inspector headed left instead.
Vail took a step forward to get a better view of the ugly, flat-topped one-story buildings—oddly out of place against the green undulating hills of the mountain peaks behind them. “What is this place?”
“Battery Spencer,” Friedberg said. “A gun battery that was used from the 1840s till World War Two. The military considered San Francisco Bay to be the most important harbor on the west coast. So they stationed three huge rifle guns here to protect the city and the bridge from attack. Right here,” he said, motioning to the large circular platform in front of them, “was the emplacement for Gun 2.” He stepped onto the gun mount and walked ahead. “But that’s not what I wanted to show you. Over here.”
Friedberg stopped in front of a slight overhang, at a cement outcropping that contained a rectangular horizontal iron door hinged at the top.
“A fireplace?” Dixon asked.
“Actually,” Friedberg said, “I’m not sure what it was. It was a military installation, who knows what they did here. February 16, 1998, Marin County sheriff’s office got a call a little after midnight. A terrible smell at Battery Spencer. A deputy sheriff was nearby, so he took the call, even though it was outside his jurisdiction. He followed
