Vail 02 - Crush (31 page)

Owens shrugged off Dixon and Brix. “Scott wouldn’t have anything to do with this. He’s innocent—and now he’s dead. For all I know, you’re the one who shot him.”

“C’mon now,” Dixon said. “I’ve spent an awful lot of time with Karen these past few days and I can tell you, that’s just not what she’s about.”

Owens turned away, strode a few paces down the hall. Wiped at his face, then placed both hands on his hips. Without turning around, he said, “Go. See if he’ll talk to you.”

BRIX WALKED INTO the task force conference room, followed by Vail and Dixon. They took their seats around the table. Nance, in his requisite dark suit, white shirt, and maroon tie, was already there, pacing in front of the whiteboard.

“Mind telling me what this is about?”

Vail looked at him, trying to get a read on his demeanor and body language. Was he, in fact, a conspirator in trying to kill her?

“Do you know a Walton Silva?” Vail asked.

Nance advanced on her, walked just a bit too close for normal speaking distance. He put both hands on his hips and looked down at her. “You know I know him, Agent Vail, otherwise I wouldn’t be here.”

Brix held up a hand. “Okay, Tim. You know him. We did know that. Question is, how well do you know him?”

“Look, don’t insult me. Just come out and ask what you want to ask.”

Vail glanced at Brix, who nodded. She said, “Did you conspire with Scott Fuller and Walton Silva to set the fire that almost killed me?”

“No. Next question.”

“So if we search your house, your garage, your cell phone records, text message transcripts, none of it will implicate you?”

“We were friends, that’s it. I knew him from high school.”

“And you had nothing to do with the fire,” Brix said.

He looked at Brix with an unwavering gaze. “Nothing.”

“Then maybe you can help us out. What can you tell us about Walton and Scott?”

“I knew Scott better. He was a good guy. Walt is, too, but I don’t spend much time with him.”

“What’s he like?” Vail asked. “Someone who’s likely to get into trouble? Honorable?”

“Pretty honorable, yeah. Never did anything a typical teen wouldn’t do. Other than that, I’ve never seen him get into serious trouble.”

Here’s where it would get a little dicey—but she wanted to see his reaction. “That’s interesting, Mr. Nance, because Walton said you and he and Scott worked together to set the fire that nearly killed me.”

Nance leaned forward, invading Vail’s space, and placed a hand on the table beside hers. He was now six inches from her face.

Vail was tempted to head butt him. A quick crack across the bridge of his nose. It would hurt like hell—but it’d also feel quite good. She did not take well to men intimidating her. An image of her ex-husband, Deacon, flashed through her thoughts. There’s no way Nance would pull this on a man; she knew that.

“Bullshit,” he said. “Why the hell would he say that?”

Vail rose from her chair, driving him backwards. She stepped forward, now invading his space and causing him to tilt ever so slightly onto his heels. “Oh, he did more than just say it, Mr. Nance. He wrote it. Three pages worth. Describing how, and why, you guys set the fire. Something to do with Congressman Church running for governor—
and taking the three of you along with him and naming you to important posts in his administration.”

Nance tugged at his tie, loosened the knot. “First, it’s all bullshit. And second, Walt wouldn’t do that.”

“Do what, write it all down or set the fire?”

Nance narrowed his eyes. “I don’t believe you.”

“Then I guess we’re even,” Vail said. “Because we don’t believe you, either.”

“And I’m done talking.”

Brix rose from his chair. “Then that’s two things we agree on. Because we’re done talking, too.”

LEAVING THE TIMOTHY NANCE MATTER to Sheriff Owens to sort out, Vail and Dixon headed out of the county building.

Dixon pushed open the front door. “What’s your take?”

Vail held it open for a large man who was entering. “Nance is cool, no doubt about it. But Silva had no reason to lie. Nance is guilty, but whether or not you can prove it is another matter. And making a case against him might be difficult. Unless we find more forensics around his place, the case is Silva’s word against Nance’s. Who’s the jury going to believe?”

Before Dixon answered, Ray Lugo came walking up the steps.

“You’re late for the party,” Dixon said.

“Oh, yeah? Judging by the look on your faces, it doesn’t look like I missed anything. But here’s something we don’t want to miss.” He held up his cell phone. “Just got a call. Kevin Cameron wants to talk.”

K
evin Cameron had physically aged in the past two days. As he stood by his open front door, he had the darkness of depression in his eyes, which were puffed, glassy, and bloodshot. His hair was uncombed and his cuffed dress shirt had days-old wear-creases.

Ray Lugo gave Cameron a shoulder hug, then reintroduced him to Vail and Dixon. The four of them stood there, silent, until Lugo said, “Why don’t we go for a walk?”

Cameron nodded, then motioned them to a path around the back of the house, which led to a compacted, decomposed granite path that cut through a rose garden. Twenty paces ahead was a well-tended vineyard. A couple of workers were down one of the aisles, huddled around a vine.

They walked in pairs, Lugo and Cameron ahead of Vail and Dixon. Their shoes crunched the walkway as they waited for Cameron to start talking. When he failed to initiate the conversation, Vail glanced at Dixon, who nodded. Vail said, “Kevin, Ray tells us there’s something you want to talk about.”

“Yeah.”

But though he kept walking, he stopped talking. Finally, he reached a freshly painted wood structure. It was a small gazebo, built into the side of the path, and looked out upon the vineyard and vine-lined mountains in the near distance. From here, they looked like tight corn-rows on a smooth scalp.

Cameron stepped into the gazebo and took a seat. On the round table sat an opened bottle of 2003 F&M Georges Valley Family Estates Syrah beside a 2004 Opus One. Vail, Dixon, and Lugo took seats
around the table. Cameron pulled the corks, then lifted both bottles and gestured to the glasses in front of them. Normally, law enforcement officers did not drink on duty, let alone in the morning. But Vail remembered reading about Opus One’s world class wines and its price—somewhere near $200 a bottle. It was like the snake in a famous garden she’d heard about as a child. In fact, the setting, as beautiful as it was, probably was fitting. As idyllic as Eden?

She looked up at Cameron and pointed at his left hand, which held the uncorked bounty.

“Opus One,” Vail said. “A competitor?”

“The CEO is a friend,” Cameron said. He did not elaborate.

He tipped the bottle and the rich, garnet-tinted wine filled her glass. The others apparently felt she’d opened the door, because they all indicated their various preferences. Lugo no doubt feeling allegiance to his friend and not wanting to hurt his feelings, chose the Georges Valley Syrah. Dixon sided with Vail.

Vail brought the glass to her nose, as Dixon had instructed her, and sniffed.
Oh. This is heavenly
. She moved it to her lips and sipped.
No,
this
is heavenly.
Creamy, with cherry and spice—anise—caressing her tongue. Closed her eyes. Wished Robby was here enjoying this with her, that Dixon and Lugo and Cameron were not.

“So,” Dixon said, swirling the wine and watching the law of centrifugal force play out in her glass. “You have information for us?”

Cameron took a long sip from his glass—he, too, chose the Syrah—and swallowed before answering. “I was thinking about the stuff I told you, about the feud.”

“It goes back a long time,” Vail said. “It’s not likely the catalyst here.”

Cameron nodded. “I know. You’re probably right. But there’s something more recent that happened, I remember Victoria talking about it. I mean, it wasn’t a big deal. Or she didn’t think so at first. But there was this phone call that really upset her.”

“Who called?”

“All I know is that it was someone who knew about the disagreement on the AVA board. So someone with insider knowledge.”

Vail set down her glass and leaned forward. “Back up a second. What disagreement?”

“The AVA board—”

She held up a hand. “This is the group that oversees various things that occur in a particular growing region. That’s the AVA board, right? I’m just trying to remember what you told us last time.”

“Yeah, that’s it. It’s a nonprofit group, a consortium set up to look after political issues that crop up, like enforcing the boundaries of the AVA’s brand. And promotional stuff—tastings, press releases, website content, that sort of thing.”

“These are elected positions?”

“Yes.” Cameron took a drink. “But the AVA is a low-key group, working in the background to enhance the appellation’s value. Battles erupt, but not very often.”

“What kind of battles?” Dixon asked.

Cameron held up his glass to the sun and studied the remaining wine. Then he drained his glass and poured another.

“Political. There’s something that’s been going on for a long time now. There are a few vintners on the board that want to modify the federal government’s regulations for our AVA. The current regulation, if enforced, would destroy our brands—and our businesses. So we’ve been fighting it.”

“How would it destroy your brands?” Lugo asked.

“The law now requires a wine that puts itself out as being in the Georges Valley District to contain 85 percent grapes grown in Georges Valley. But a few of us want the government to change it so we can use the name Georges Valley without having to have 85 percent Georges Valley grapes in the wine.”

Vail crossed her legs and leaned back in her chair. “Why would some vintners be opposed to that?”

Cameron tipped the glass and drank. He licked his lips, then said, “Because Georges Valley is a premium brand, with a well-established quality and cachet associated with it. The fear is new wineries could come into the region and turn out low-priced, high-volume production wines. They couldn’t possibly get the yield they want from Georges Valley, so they would have to buy cheaper grapes from Contra Costa County, the Central Valley, and Livermore. They could then call
their wine Georges Valley Reserve. But there wouldn’t be any Georges Valley grapes in it.”

“I haven’t heard anything about this,” Dixon said.

Lugo shook his head. “Me either.”

Cameron forced a smile. “Bad publicity. We keep it under wraps, but it’s gotten pretty contentious at times.”

“We’ll need the names of the players,” Dixon said. “All the board members.”

Cameron sat back. “I don’t think it gets
that
heated, that anyone would want to kill over it.”

“It’s business,” Vail said. “Business is money. Big money, is my guess. And people kill over money all the time.”
But serial killers don’t kill over money, and they kill strangers, not people they work with on local boards. So this still doesn’t fit.

“I’ll have a list faxed over to your office,” Cameron said.

Dixon took the last sip, then set down her empty glass. “Who sits on the AVA board? What type of people?”

Cameron poured more wine for himself, then offered it around the table. But the cops had had enough. “Just about all are winery executives. The president’s position rotates every three years.”

“Do all AVA boards operate this way?” Dixon asked.

“They all vary in how they work. Georges Valley is different than most, I think.”

Vail was suddenly lost in thought, sifting through something her brain was trying to tell her. What was it? AVAs ... winery executives . . . she had seen something somewhere . . .
Vallejo. Maryanne Bernal was a winery executive sitting on a nonprofit board.
She would have to check to see which one.