Long Time Gone (21 page)

God, I’ll miss his smile. Along with the rest of him.
She started toward the door.

He reached for her, cupping her cheek in his hand. “You don’t have to go, Bambi.”

The hollow feeling in her chest throbbed painfully. “Yeah, I do. My dad may be coming back to the winery tomorrow and I need to get ready for him.”

His gaze held hers for a moment longer. Then he leaned forward, brushing his lips against her forehead. “I’ll call you.”

She wanted to laugh but it hurt too much.
I’ll call you.
Wasn’t that what they always said?

“Sure. Later.” And she was gone.

Erik got Biedermeier out of his cell as soon as he and Nando both made it to the station the next morning. They didn’t have a room for interviewing suspects per se, but the break room housed the coffeepot, a refrigerator and a microwave, along with several cartons of paper towels and a mop and pail. He figured Terrell didn’t exactly require special handling, but he read him his rights a second time just to be sure.

Biedermeier regarded him warily. The skin around his eye had blossomed into a dark purple, and the bridge of his nose was bandaged.

Erik shrugged. “You shouldn’t have grabbed her, Terrell.”

Biedermeier rubbed a hand across his stubbly jaw. “Yeah, I know. Lost my head there for a minute.” He cast a longing look at the coffee pot on the counter. After a second, Erik nodded to Nando, who pulled a coffee can out of the refrigerator.

“Okay, Terrell.” Erik leaned back in his folding chair. “Sooner or later some other people are going to show up to talk to you—Sheriff Friesenhahn to start with and maybe TCEQ. But for now, I’ve got some questions for you myself.”

Biedermeier’s eyes widened. “Why do I need to talk to all those guys? It was just a little dumping.”

Erik pinched the bridge of his nose. “That ‘little dumping’ is a felony, Terrell, so eventually you’ll end up in jail. I’ve got jurisdiction on you right now since I more or less tripped over you, but I won’t keep it. Not on something high profile like this. On the other hand, if you talk to me now, I can put in a good word for you with the sheriff and later with the judge.”

Erik let one corner of his mouth edge up in a smile that wasn’t supposed to be reassuring. The idea of saying any good words about Terrell Biedermeier didn’t rate high on his list. He hadn’t asked for a lawyer yet. Erik didn’t plan on reminding him that he could. If he couldn’t remember the rights he’d just heard, he was shit out of luck.

Biedermeier peered up at him from beneath his bushy eyebrows. “What all you want to know?”

He put his recorder on the table in front of him. “Let’s start with where you dumped around Konigsburg and when. And who helped you.” He clicked the Record button and muttered the date, time and salient details into the mike.

Biedermeier glanced down at his folded hands. Behind him, Nando scooped coffee grounds into the ancient percolator, one eye on Terrell’s tense shoulders.

“I got a list,” Biedermeier mumbled finally.

Erik frowned. “A list. Of places around town where you dumped stuff?”

Biedermeier shook his head. “Nah. Places I picked up. He’d give me a list to use. Every time I did a pickup.”

Erik sat very still. “He did? Who was that?”

Biedermeier shrugged. “Don’t ask me. Only saw him a couple times. Most of the time he’d just phone when he had something and then drop the list in my mailbox.”

“The list of people who wanted you to dispose of their chemicals?”

“Yeah. Never told me what it was I was picking up, though. Just to take it out in the hills and dump it. Used my truck. Motor oil, mostly, I guess. I’d hose the tank down when I was through.”

Erik raised an eyebrow. “You added a little bit of leftover Chlordane of your own, though, right?”

Biedermeier frowned, shaking his head. “No sir, I don’t use Chlordane. Don’t have none around. It’s banned.”

Behind Biedermeier, Nando rolled his eyes as he plugged in the coffee pot.

“It’s all banned, Terrell,” Erik said dryly. “None of that stuff was supposed to be dumped. You’re telling me the Chlordane didn’t come from you?”

Biedermeier dropped his gaze to his hands again, then lifted one shoulder in a half shrug. “Might have been some in the truck, I guess. Left over, like you said. Best stuff there is for taking care of termites. Never knew why they banned it.”

“It causes cancer,” Erik said through clenched teeth.

“Hell, what doesn’t?” Biedermeier settled back in his chair, squinting at the window.

“How did they pay you for those pickups, Terrell?”

Biedermeier rubbed his thumb across the back of his hand, staring silently at the tabletop. After a moment, he sighed. “Cash. It’d come in the mail a couple of days after I did a pickup.” Behind him the percolator erupted with a loud
plop!
Biedermeier jumped.

Nando folded his arms across his chest, his face dark, as he walked around the table. “You’re telling us you never met the guy who was running all this? That you got all your orders over the phone? Come on, Terrell. Even you aren’t that dumb!”

Terrell’s forehead furrowed, his eyes round. “Sure I am.”

Erik gave Nando a
back-off
look. Nando turned around to pull some coffee cups out of the cupboard.

“You remember anything about the man, Terrell? What he looked like? He give you a way to reach him? A name?”

“No, sir. He’d just call every once in a while, tell me to make a run. Then the money would come. And I only saw him the one time when he set the whole thing up with me.”

Nando’s lips were a thin line. “How would you get the list of names? Would he give you that over the phone too?”

Biedermeier glanced back and forth between them, eyes wide. “He sends the list Priority Mail.”

Erik rubbed his eyes, thinking about court orders for phone records, and then chasing down the man on the other end of those phone calls. Assuming the people behind the dumping had their heads so far up their asses they missed the news that Biedermeier had been arrested. He had a feeling that was something he’d have to leave to Friesenhahn, or possibly the Rangers.

“We’ll need the list, Terrell. All the lists from all the jobs. You still got them all?”

Biedermeier swallowed, scratching around the edge of his collar. “I wasn’t supposed to keep ’em. He told me to get rid of ’em after I made the drops.”

“Did you keep any?”

Biedermeier’s eyes darted around the room. “Dunno. I’d need to look.”

“We’ll look for you.” Erik’s voice was level.

“Maybe you could take us there now.” Nando gave him an easy smile. Good cop, reborn. “You can pack your toothbrush while we pick up the lists. You don’t mind if we go through your house, do you, Terrell?”

Biedermeier slowly shook his head. “Guess not. Might as well be you as anybody. Least I know you. Don’t know the sheriff, do I?”

“Nope, you sure don’t.” Nando handed him a cup of coffee.

Erik pushed his chair back, getting slowly to his feet. “We’ll talk again later, Terrell.”

Nando followed him out the door, where Erik turned back. “Nice try, bubba, but seeing as how Pittman’s already after my ass, we’ll still need to get a search warrant.”

Biedermeier’s house smelled of sweat and old grease. Dust motes danced in the rays of sunlight that filtered through the Venetian blinds. Erik could see a few lumps of furniture in the dimness, along with a large-screen TV in the corner. Apparently, Biedermeier didn’t deprive himself of all luxuries.

Nando sighed. “About what I’d expect Terrell to live in. What exactly are we looking for?”

“Lists of customers.” Erik shrugged. “Cancelled checks. Business records. Anything that might give us a lead on who hired him.”

“Assuming we buy into the whole ‘mysterious mastermind’ story.” Nando sighed more deeply. “Where do we start?”

“You take the living room. I’ll find his desk, assuming he didn’t run his business out of the damn truck.”

Two hours later, they’d found most of what seemed to pass for Biedermeier’s records—three banker’s boxes full of miscellaneous junk. Erik had retrieved at least one list of customers from a battered desk in the back bedroom. If he’d hoped to get any leads from the list, one look told him to forget it—it was a photocopied printout in Courier.

He stared back at the house after they’d finished loading the boxes into the cruiser’s trunk. A forties bungalow, like every other house on the block, with a live oak tree and an ancient rose climbing up the battered trellis at the front. If Biedermeier had been making a lot of money dumping outlaw chemicals, wouldn’t he have moved to a better place?

And if Biedermeier wasn’t making money on this deal, who was? Maybe the Master Criminal existed after all.

Around lunchtime, Morgan watched her father park his black SUV in the
Reserved
spot in front of the winery. As he pushed himself to his feet and began limping toward the tasting room, he looked almost like himself again. He was still thinner than he should be, and he leaned heavily on his cane. But his eyes flashed with the old fervor.

Wine snob alert!

She heard another door slam and glanced back at the SUV. Her mother stared up at the winery, thunderclouds in her eyes. So far as Morgan knew, her mother hadn’t been in Konigsburg for the last two years. When her mom and dad had separated, her mom had sworn never to set foot in the winery.

Just past noon, and already things were off to an interesting start!

Her father nodded at her, smiling broadly, then headed toward Ciro, who stood in the tasting room door.

Her mother paused at her side. “Somebody had to drive with him. The old fool would have tried to come up and back in a day. Probably would have broken his neck in the process.”

Morgan put her arm around her mother’s shoulders. “Come on, Mom, let’s get you a glass of something or other.”

Inside the tasting room, her father was sitting at the desk in what was supposed to be her office, flipping through a series of notebooks. The barrel room records, the ones she’d spent hours keeping up to date. Ciro sat beside him, pointing to a page.

Morgan sighed. Shouldn’t she feel more nervous about this? After all, they’d be checking over all the work she’d done for the last year.

But then it really wasn’t her work. It was just what Ciro told her to do.

Her father glanced up at her. “Looks all right. Good job keeping the records up to date, Morgan.”

“Thanks.” She nodded, trying to feel pleased. Her stomach twisted again.

“My wine?” Her mother put her hand on Morgan’s elbow, steering her toward the tasting bar where Kit sat studying them, her chin in her hands.

“Kit, this is my mom, Leila Barrett. Mom, this is Kit Maldonado. She runs the tasting room.”

Her mother settled onto a stool in front of the bar, smiling at Kit. “That’s the only job I’d want to have around here.”

Kit grinned back. “Me too, ma’am.”

Ciro and her father were flipping through more pages. Morgan heard Ciro mutter something about pH levels and acidity. He’d never told her anything about that. But what would she have done about it if he had? She still didn’t understand all the wine chemistry her father and Ciro used when they did their blends.

Beside her, her mother sipped her viognier and watched, one eyebrow raised. “Are you all right, sweetheart?”

“I’m fine.” Morgan rubbed a hand against the back of her neck. What she was feeling—or not feeling—had nothing to do with Erik Toleffson. Nothing whatsoever.

“Don’t worry, honey, they’re not shutting you out. Your dad knows how much this means to you.”

Did he? Morgan doubted it, all of a sudden. A year’s worth of scut work, of trying to prove herself to Ciro, to Carmen, to him, to herself. Did he know what that meant?

“Okay, Morg,” her father called, “where’s that Powell lease? And we need all that crap from TCEQ.”

Morgan spent the afternoon finding files on the computer, bringing out bottles of wine for tasting, even bringing a cluster of Cynthiana grapes for her father to check. She began to feel like a cross between a gofer and a waitress, seeing as how she also kept them supplied with cheese, bread and fruit.

Carmen came in and swept her mother away for gossip and coffee. Her father and Ciro worked straight through lunch. Morgan chewed on a piece of baguette and watched Kit pour wine.

By late afternoon, she was ready to head for the Dew Drop, assuming her father didn’t need her to dig up something from beneath the floor of the barrel room.

“Morgan!” She turned at the bite in her father’s voice. He was staring at another piece of paper, but this time it looked like a letter. “Come here a minute.”

Reluctantly, she walked across the room. This didn’t look like fun. “What is it, Dad?”

Her father looked up at her again, one eyebrow raised. He held the sheet between his thumb and forefinger, as if it were contaminated. “Bored Ducks?”

Morgan looked over his shoulder. The letter from ATF. She scanned it quickly, grinning. “They approved the label? Fantastic! Esteban must have put it on my desk after he read it. Now we can release it at the Wine and Food Festival.”

“Bored Ducks?” Her father’s voice rose. “You want Cedar Creek Winery to produce a wine called Bored Ducks? Who the hell authorized this?”

“It’s Esteban’s blend.” Morgan turned to Ciro. “You remember—the one he did a couple of years ago.”

Her father turned to Ciro too, one hand fisted on the tabletop. “Since when does Esteban do blends?”

Ciro raised an eyebrow. “Boy’s been taking viticulture and enology courses for a few years now. I gave him the okay.” He turned a gimlet gaze on Morgan. “But I didn’t okay that name.”

Morgan’s shoulders tightened. She forced herself to relax. “Have either of you been in a wine store lately? Lots of wineries are doing unusual labels. It gets people’s attention. Sometimes they’ll buy on the strength of the label alone. It’s a good marketing strategy.”

Morgan felt a hand on her shoulder. Her mother stood behind her, smiling a little too brightly. “I think it’s a great idea. What does the label look like?”