Crush - Alan Jacobson [14]
“Guess we just let ourselves in,” Vail said.
Just past the small security shed was a cutout in the fine gravel and compacted dirt that lined the paved roadway. A silver Ford sat parked parallel to the path in one of the available slots.
“Wanna walk?” Robby asked. “We don’t know where Brix is on the property, might as well explore.” He slid the Murano into the spot in front of the Ford and they hiked along the asphalt toward the house, which sat thirty yards ahead.
“Gorgeous property,” Vail said. Exquisitely maintained vineyards, arranged in precise rows, lined the land to the north and south. “My feeling is that if we go to the front door, good chance they’ll tell us to go home.”
“But if we wander around, we’re just a couple of bumbling idiots looking for Brix.”
“Exactly.”
The house was a gray, four-story, stone-faced structure with mature palms fanning out from either side of the entrance. A six-car garage sat to the left of the main building, attached by a covered walkway with vine-covered columns. Vail and Robby hung a left by the palms and moved down a graveled path for about fifty paces.
They stopped and surveyed the landscape. Ahead of them lay closely cropped grass-covered rolling hills, with a sharp drop-off slightly to their right. Robby pointed in the direction he felt they should proceed, and they made their way down the sharp grade, moving sideways to control their descent.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Knee’s a little sore, but no problem.”
The land flattened out, and further right, behind the house now and a hundred yards away, was a group of nine men holding shovels, perched beside a rectangular thirty-foot hole in the ground. A conical mound of overturned dirt sat along the far edge of the pit. A large, covered, blue-and-white wheeled cooler reclined at an angle on a secondary pile of dry soil.
As Robby and Vail neared, Vail made out Redmond Brix, beer in one hand and the handle of a shovel in the other, the tip stuck into the grass.
“Can I help you?” asked a man in a security uniform standing beside Brix, a two-way fastened to his belt. “This is private property.”
“Front gate was open.”
Brix turned. His face drooped as he caught sight of Vail. He frowned, then motioned to a man in jeans, leather gloves, and designer sunglasses. “This is one of my closest friends, Al Toland. He owns this property. Al, this is FBI Agent Vail and Detective Hernandez, from Virginia.” Brix introduced the rest of the men, other friends and hired workers, who dipped their chins and tipped their hats in acknowledgment.
One of them had a high-end digital SLR camera around his neck, Nikon D700 embroidered into the strap.
“Good to meet all of you,” Robby said. “Sorry to intrude.”
“Goddamn right,” Brix said. “It’s my day off. Can’t a guy get a break?”
“Hey, this is our vacation,” Vail said.
Brix cocked his head. “No one’s asking you to keep sticking your nose in places you don’t belong.”
“Can’t argue with that,” Robby said.
Vail threw him a look.
“Javi,” Toland said to the uniformed security guard, “go shut the front gate, please.”
The security guard immediately headed off in the direction from which Vail and Robby had come. Brix stuck his shovel deeper into the dirt and trudged toward them, then motioned them to an area a few yards from the other men.
Vail faced Brix and said, “Look, we’re just trying to help, that’s it. If there’s some information we can offer to help catch the guy who filleted that woman, then we’ve done our job.”
“Your job? You have no job here. Do us all a favor, Agent Vail, go and visit some wineries, enjoy your time in the wine country with Detective Hernandez. Once you get home, it’s back to the grind.”
Vail couldn’t help but think that this could’ve been Robby uttering those same words. And in another sense, Brix was right. What the hell was she doing here? She was on vacation. She should’ve been enjoying the beauty of the Napa Valley, tasting some of the world’s best wine, decompressing, letting her knee heal. That was the plan. But some