The 7th Canon (29 page)

“Don’t know, but the kid got off easy. Not even a note on his record.”

“Who was he blackmailing?” Ross asked.

“A mover and shaker in the restaurant business who owned a trendy nightclub south of Market Street. Ring any bells?”

“Yeah, it does,” Ross said, looking like he actually heard bells ringing.

“Jack Devine,” Goldman said.

Ross snapped his fingers. “That’s it. That’s the name.” Ross turned to Donley. “From what I remember, Devine said the kid made his acquaintance after a big spread in the newspaper hyping Devine and his latest restaurant.”

“The kid wanted money,” Goldman said, “and kept after him.”

“And Devine was married to a wealthy girl with deep San Francisco roots.”

“Ruth Catchings,” Goldman interjected.

“Ruth Catchings,” Ross said.

“Devine paid at first, close to a couple thousand bucks,” Goldman said. “But then the kid got nasty and really started putting the screws to him. Devine didn’t have much choice but to go to the police.”

“They did a little undercover sting operation of their own, and from what I was told, the police tape is not pleasant,” Ross finished.

“Where’s Devine now?” Donley asked.

“Great minds think alike, hero.” His eyes grew wide. “Maybe a revenge killing; wouldn’t that be something? They’d make a movie and star Jack Nicholson. Here’s Johnny!” Goldman’s roar caught the attention of the adjacent table. “Apparently, after the little sting operation, Devine sold the restaurants, left San Francisco, and took his family to the wine country. He owns a house and grows grapes near Saint Helena. According to our reporter, Devine is edgy. Says about fifty witnesses will confirm he was at the winery that night, no further comment, and he’ll sue the pants off us if we print another story.”

“Extortion,” Ross mused while ripping a chunk of bread from the top of his bowl and wiping at the remnants of his clam chowder as he glanced at Donley. “How about that?”

“Story is going to run front page in the paper tomorrow morning. Care to make a statement, friend?” Goldman asked Donley.

Donley shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

Goldman stood. “OK, I got to move. Too long in one place, and I grow roots.” He took another look at Donley. “You sure I don’t know you?” he asked.

“I’d remember you,” Donley said, causing Ross to laugh.

Ross and Donley drove across the Bay Bridge in the direction of Saint Helena, Napa Valley wine country.

“He’s quite a character,” Donley said of Goldman. “Is he always that animated?”

“That was subdued,” Ross said as if surprised. “And he’s not a character. He’s the genuine article. With Sam Goldman, what you see is what you get. He loves life, and he loves being a newspaperman.”

“I couldn’t tell what he liked better, having the information or giving it to us,” Donley agreed.

“Make no mistake about that,” Ross cautioned. “Sam’s a reporter. Getting information is what makes a man like Sam click. Once he’s got it, it’s old news. He’s already looking for the next story.” He looked over at Donley. “He’ll be hot on your trail. He won’t stop thinking about how he knows you until he figures it out.”

Donley tried to dismiss it. “Probably high school football. I had a lot of stories written about me back then.”

“You were a star, huh?”

“Something like that.”

Ross nodded to the white lunch bag on the cherry-red seat that contained half of the roast-beef sandwich. “You appeared to have lost your appetite awful quick.”

Donley changed the subject. “You think this guy Devine could have killed Bennet?”

“Don’t know, but I doubt it.”

“You said motivation was number one. Devine had the motivation.”

“
Had
being the operative word,” Ross said. “Devine apparently got away with it. Why would he look a gift horse in the mouth and come back for more?”

“Because he can’t help himself; I mean, if we go with the assumption that he’s a pedophile.”

“Maybe, but I’m betting old Jack Devine never wanted to see or hear about Andrew Bennet again.”

“Maybe Bennet found him.”

“Again, not likely. I don’t see Bennet getting on a bus for the wine country. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Let’s see what kind of guy Jack is and what he has to say.”

“What if this guy Devine wasn’t the only person Bennet blackmailed?”

“I like that assumption better.”

“He could have made the wrong enemy.”

“Plausible,” Ross agreed.

The lightbulb turned on for Donley. “The lockers. Someone broke into the lockers looking for something. What if what they were looking for was something Andrew Bennet brought to the shelter with him? Goldman said that Bennet was blackmailing people. He had to have some evidence, something to make them concerned.” The idea came to him quickly. “Photographs. Photographs like the ones Connor claims he found in the office. Maybe Bennet tried to blackmail the wrong guy. Connor?”

“Like I said, not likely,” Ross said. “But it could have been the priest.”

“I believe my guy,” Donley said. “What about someone Connor was working for?”

“Again, I don’t see Connor working for a pedophile, no matter how much the guy was willing to pay.”

Donley gave it further consideration. “You said revenge was likely what motivates someone like Connor. Maybe he wanted the photographs to blackmail someone himself.”

“I like that theory a lot better,” Ross said.

An hour and a half later, they drove through Saint Helena, a quaint town of trendy antique shops, expensive restaurants, and bed-and-breakfasts nestled in the heart of Napa Valley. The businesses appeared to be keeping winter hours; many of the storefront windows were already dark. Saint Helena was one of a string of wine-country towns serving as weekend escapes for the residents of San Francisco and its crowded Bay Area suburbs. The valley had become a getaway retreat for those with a lot of money seeking warm weather and wine tasting amid lush valley brush and two-hundred-year-old oak trees. They built multimillion-dollar homes with tennis courts, swimming pools, vineyards, and guesthouses. It was here that Frank Ross and Peter Donley would find Jack Devine.

Donley spotted the two rock pillars, a landmark that a woman at a restaurant had provided. No other markers identified the Devine estate from the road. As the Cadillac bounced up a narrow dirt road cut through tree limbs and brush, Donley was convinced Ross was right, that Jack Devine wanted it that way. He wanted to be lost. He wanted the shrubs and grass and oak trees to grow over the road and his shady past. Then Ross steered the Cadillac around a corner, and they came upon a mammoth wood-and-river-rock structure that was anything but subtle. Towering above the tree line, the building was surrounded by well-manicured grounds with picnic tables, gravel footpaths lined by flower beds, and antique horse carriages.

What Donley initially mistook to be Devine’s home turned out to be the facade to a winery. They had apparently driven in the back entrance. The main road, paved asphalt, circled through gnarled grapevines stretched across sloped hills at the top of which sat an equally impressive mansion that looked like it belonged in the hills of Tuscany. Jack Devine had apparently landed on his feet following his exposure as a pedophile. He had survived the pain and humiliation quite nicely, thank you.

Ross parked in one of several spaces open along the side of the winery. “Not bad,” he said, speaking for them both. “Not bad at all.” They pushed out of the car.

“Let’s get the lay of the land,” Ross said.

They circled the building and found several parked cars at the back, including an emerald-green Mercedes parked in a spot reserved for J. Devine. The sign was unnecessary. The Mercedes came with a personalized license plate:
DEVINE
.

“So much for Jack seeking anonymity and a little humility,” Ross said.

At the front entrance, Donley pulled open a mammoth redwood door and stepped into a peaked-roof structure. Vines and plants hung from the beams of a cathedral ceiling, and a small pond and waterfall trickled into a lazy stream along a gravel path that led to a tasting bar. A young woman stood beside a muscled, silver-haired man aglow with orange skin that beamed tanning salon. They both wore white-knit shirts with an image of the winery embroidered just above the left breast.

“We’ll be closing in fifteen minutes,” the man said pleasantly. “We don’t have much of a selection left, but I can pour you a glass of our chardonnay. We’re going to be putting two out to market this year, and both are particularly nice.”

“No, thanks,” Ross said, getting to the point without pleasantries. “We’re here to see Jack Devine.”

“Jack?”

“He’s expecting us. We have an appointment.”

The man tapped the counter, uncertain what to do or say. Ross’s no-nonsense stare apparently convinced him. “OK, I’ll let him know. Can I tell him who it is?”

“Tom and Jerry,” Ross said, breaking into a wide grin. “I’m Tom.” The man turned and left the counter.

Donley walked around the winery, considering wood and metal wine racks, corks, books, T-shirts, and other novelty items. Air-conditioning chilled the room. It took longer than it should have for the man to return. When he did, he was still smiling, but now it looked forced.

“I’m sorry. Jack left early today.”

After an hour-and-a-half drive, Donley was not ready to go home without speaking to Devine, but before he could call bullshit and tell the orange man that Devine’s car was sitting in the parking lot, Ross chimed in.

“We’re sorry to have troubled you; I guess we got the day wrong. Can I borrow your pen?”

The man unsnapped a pen clipped to the front of his shirt and handed it to Ross. Ross took a napkin from the counter, wrote on it, folded it in half, and handed the note and pen back to the man. “Could you do me a favor and give this to Jack when you see him? It’s important. He’ll want to read it
right away
.”

Outside, they walked around the back of the building and waited near the Mercedes. “What are we doing?” Donley asked.

“Waiting.”

“For what?”

Ross looked at his watch, then at the back door. “That.”

The man storming out of the building was dressed in a tennis outfit and looked the part with a trim build, sandy-blond hair pulled into a ponytail, and a red face that was definitely not from the sun or regular visits to a tanning salon. Jack Devine marched forward like a disgruntled five-year-old sent off to bed. He spoke before his feet stopped moving, a shrill whine.

“You have no right to be here. You have no right to be here.” The only thing missing from his tantrum was stomping feet.

“Take it easy, Jack.” Ross made the name sound less like Devine’s first name, and more like an insult. He sat on the hood of Devine’s Mercedes, and the car sagged beneath his weight. “Your winery is open to the public, and last time I checked, we’re part of the public.” He looked at Donley. “Aren’t we part of the public?”

“We’re as public as they get,” Donley said. “Nothing private about us.”

“I called my lawyer. He’s on his way. You can talk to him. I have nothing to say to either of you.” It was a bluff and not a very good one. For one, Devine was standing there when he could have stayed in his office. Whatever Ross wrote on the napkin, it had worked.

Ross let out an exaggerated sigh. “You didn’t call your lawyer, Jack, because you don’t want to drag your past into your cozy life here in the Napa Valley. The way I figure it, you’d like to forget all about the past.”

“I did. I called my lawyer,” Devine said, becoming less and less convincing, if that were possible. “My next call will be to the police.”

Ross stood. His enormous size dwarfed Devine. “Tell you what, Jack. I’ll make that call for you. You see, on the drive up here, I had a friend of mine go on the computer and look up whether you were a registered sex offender. Imagine my surprise when she told me no.” Ross made a face like he was shocked. “I assume that was part of the deal your lawyer cut with the DA. Am I right?”

Devine did not answer. His coloring had gone from red to a chalky white.

“You managed to avoid just about everything except the papers, didn’t you, Jack? Well, that will change with just one call to the
Napa Valley Register
. Big story for a small town like this—big man on campus a possible murder suspect in the death of a teenage prostitute he once used to frequent. You feel like moving again? I hear Idaho is nice in the summers, but the winters can be a bitch.”