front doors.”
A moment later, Wirth was in Crystal’s office, taking a seat beside Dixon.
“Ian, good to see you,” Crystal said, eyeing him with a lingering gaze.
The look was not lost on Dixon, who recalled that Crystal was Wirth’s ex-wife.
“Ms. Dixon, good to see you again,” Wirth said. He held out a hand to Brix. “Ian Wirth.”
“Redmond Brix.” He stood and shook firmly, then retook his seat. “Good that you’re here. We’ve got some questions and Crystal thought you might be able to help us out. We know you were your board’s primary negotiator in its dealings with Superior Mobile Bottling. But how much did you interact with Cesar Guevara?”
Wirth smirked. “Quite a lot. I negotiated our last contract with him and had ongoing discussions with him about its potential renewal.”
“And was he aware that you were one of the three on the board who was against him getting this contract?”
Wirth leaned back in his seat. “If he was, he never let me know it. And I played my cards close to the vest. Besides, I was speaking and negotiating for the entire membership, not me, or Victoria, or Todd.”
“I know you’re aware that the two others who opposed this contract are dead.”
“Hold it a second.” This from Crystal, who was suddenly paying attention. “What are you saying?”
“Victoria Cameron and Isaac Jenkins were the victims of a serial killer,” Brix said.
“I heard something on the news—”
Brix held up a hand to quash Crystal’s panic before it could work itself into a frazzle. “He’s been caught, and he’s no longer a threat.”
“Yes, that’s what they said.” Crystal’s gaze shot from Brix to Dixon, and back. “But I thought Victoria had a stroke.”
“We didn’t want word getting out until we had things under control,” Brix said. “The victims’ names still haven’t been released, so I’d appreciate if you’d keep that to yourselves until we’ve had a chance to meet with the families.”
Dixon said to Wirth, “Did you ever have any indication that Superior was engaged in anything other than legal activities?”
Wirth’s chin jutted back. “No. Should I have? I mean, our business with him was strictly related to bottling, and nothing else.”
Dixon placed a hand on his forearm. “Ian, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea about this. We’re not accusing you of anything. Like I said at lunch, we’re still investigating something that may or may not be related to John Mayfield.”
Wirth’s shoulders relaxed a bit. Brix asked, “Was there ever a time when Superior closed down for annual maintenance?”
“Annual maintenance. You mean on his rigs?”
“On anything,” Dixon said.
Wirth thought a moment. “Nothing I’m aware of. But our business with them is seasonal, so it’s conceivable he went off line. I’d have no idea.” Wirth sucked on his top lip. “But he did periodically make trips out of the country. There were a couple times when our appointments got rescheduled because he had to leave unexpectedly for a week or ten days at a time.”
Dixon said, “So there may be a perfectly reasonable explanation for him being gone.”
“Maybe,” Brix said in a low voice. “I’m not so sure.”
A thought wormed its way into Dixon’s head, but she didn’t want to discuss it until she and Brix were in private.
“Is there anything else you can tell us about Guevara?” Brix asked.
Wirth did not hesitate. “He’s a shrewd businessman. He understands his product and what it saves his customers. At the same time, he does what it takes to get our business. And I have to admit, even though I was resisting the renewal of his contract, it wasn’t because they didn’t do a fine job. There were other forces at play.”
Dixon smirked. There were, indeed, other forces at play—more than Ian Wirth knew. “Has he ever been to your home, know where you live?”
“No, why?”
“So he wouldn’t have a need for your home address.”
Wirth eyed her cautiously. “No.”
Dixon slipped a hand inside her pocket and pulled out Robby’s photo. “Ever seen this man?”
Wirth studied the picture, then shook his head. “Should I have?”
Dixon tucked away the photo. “I honestly don’t think so.” She rose and extended a hand to Crystal. “Once again, Ms. Dahlia, a pleasure. Thanks for all your help. “Ian, thank you. We’ll call you if we have any other questions.”
She hurried out of the winery, anxious to share her thoughts with Brix.
AS SOON AS DIXON hit the front door, she said, “Add it up, Redd.”
Brix glanced back over his shoulder at the glass structure embedded in the mountainside. “Already have. Guevara’s involved with a drug cartel. He owns several rigs that can easily be attached to large trailers and used for long haul transport.”
“I think we’ve got enough for a search warrant.”
“If we get the right judge. Let’s work on it, see how far we can get. Whether Guevara’s there or not, it’ll get us in the front door so we can take a closer look around.”
“If we’re going to find Robby, I don’t think that’ll help us. We need Guevara. And we need to find him without going down the usual roads because I doubt they’ll lead anywhere. APBs and subpoenas on his credit card transactions will be useless. He’s too sophisticated for that. But somehow we need to find out what he knows.”
Brix sighed. “You know what my brother would say?”
Dixon shrugged.
“He’d say, ‘Good luck with that.’”
“Yeah,” Dixon said. “But here’s the thing. Luck hasn’t once factored into this investigation. I don’t think it’s something we can count on.”
50
DeSantos gunned the Corvette. Vail, once again, grabbed for something to hold onto. The repeated whiplash was starting to get to her.
Four minutes earlier, DeSantos had received a call from ASAC Yardley telling him that Antonio Sebastiani de Medina had surfaced and was being debriefed at the DEA’s facility at Quantico.
Vail showed her creds and was admitted to the base. DeSantos zipped along the road past the FBI Academy and five minutes later pulled into the parking lot of the DEA’s decade-old training academy complex.
Inside, after being informed that they were on the premises, Peter Yardley walked out into the hallway. “He showed up at the front gate. No ID, no money, and he hadn’t eaten in two days. Apparently he babbled enough credible information that the guard got me on the line.”
“Can we see him?” Vail asked.
“He’s had a rough go of it. Normally, I’d say we should give him some time. But—”
“We don’t have that luxury,” Vail said firmly.
Yardley frowned. “No, we don’t. Follow me.” He led Vail and DeSantos down a long corridor. The building still had a new construction feel to it, even after a decade of use. Multicolored blue, red, and gray industrial carpet led up to glass administrative doors. “Undercover agents are not normally debriefed at the Quantico facility,” Yardley said. “It’s used primarily for training, but he was in a bad way and I didn’t want to risk transporting him. The nurse has him hooked up to fluids and he’s perking up. But we haven’t gotten a whole lot out of him yet.” Yardley pushed through a wooden classroom door and held it open for them.
Inside, a trim-bearded man with an olive complexion sat at a table with an IV snaking from his left
