Crush - Alan Jacobson [109]
Before Dixon could answer, Brix said, “I’m vaguely familiar with Superior. Privately held, family-owned business. Like half of all the other businesses in the valley.”
“Privately held,” Vail said. “Meaning we don’t know much about their operations. Their financing, investors, the people with skin in the game.”
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.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
While en route to their meet with Friedberg, Vail looked over the roster of Georges Valley AVA board members. She called three and explained she wanted to drop by to talk with them. All three declined. But the fourth agreed to sit down with her: Ian Wirth, whose home was located near downtown Napa. Vail set a tentative time for their meeting, and told him she would call him when they were thirty minutes away so he had time to leave his winery and get home in time for their arrival.
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