Crush - Alan Jacobson [28]
Montalvo sat there, the fire gone from his eyes, his shoulders slumped forward, his gaze downcast. “I’ve said all I’m going to say. Now . . . please, leave me alone. I have to go tell my wife that her daughter . . . that her daughter . . .” His bloodshot eyes started to tear up. “I’ll call you if I come across anything you need to know.”
Vail doubted they would hear again from Frederick Montalvo, but there was nothing more they were going to get from him at present. At least they had something to dig into.
They again offered their condolences, then left the way they came in.
FIFTEEN
John Wayne Mayfield stood beside his vehicle, peering intently at the entrance to the administration building of Montalvo Villa Estates Winery. No one would question his presence, yet because of who he was, he was as conspicuous as a pus pimple on the tip of a nose.
Didn’t matter, though. He could easily deflect anyone who came his way and asked why he was there. His job gave him that power and authority.
Less than twenty minutes after arriving, the two women left the building; a looker redhead and a well-put-together blond. Mayfield didn’t know who they were, but he would make it a point to find out. They looked official, but he hadn’t seen them around—he most certainly would’ve remembered them.
He should have expected this. But this was where it got interesting—which was good; this was something he’d never had to deal with, and he welcomed a challenge.
Mayfield reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out a notepad, and began writing. A moment later, he watched as the women settled themselves into their Ford. They remained there a few minutes, talking and making a phone call. He walked to his vehicle and then followed them down the road, off the property, and onto 29, keeping a discreet distance.
The duties of his real occupation would have to wait. For the rest of the day, he had a new job.
VAIL CLOSED HER DOOR and turned to Dixon, who was staring through the windshield. She made no effort to insert the key into the ignition.
“So what do you make of that?” Vail asked.
“Hard to say. There are a lot of families who’ve been here decades. Bragging rights, competitive posturing—even among family members. There are rifts, feuds, politics . . . so this disagreement Montalvo talked about, it’s nothing to write home about.” She raked her hair back off her face. “But it could be motive.”
Vail wasn’t sure about that, but said, “We should at least check it out.”
Dixon pulled out her phone, and dialed Lugo. It rang through her car’s hands-free speaker. He answered on the second ring. “Ray, we’re on our way over to Kevin Cameron’s place. You still there?”
“Yeah, why?”
“We’ve got some questions for him.” Dixon turned over the engine and drew back the gearshift. “Give me the address. We’ll be there in ten.”
Dixon turned onto 29 and took the nearest cross street that went through to Silverado Trail, a gently winding picturesque road that was largely untouched by tourist spoils, restaurants, and city buildings: only vineyards, smaller production wineries, scenic foothills, and the occasional well-financed home set back on a hillside perch.
They turned left and headed down a private road that snaked uphill into the drive of a generously sized Tudor home. It wasn’t as pretentious as Montalvo Villa Estates, but it was, nevertheless, a multimillion-dollar structure.
Vail followed Dixon to the front door, where Dixon pressed the chime. It sounded large and cavernous inside, and when the wooden entry door swung open, it didn’t disappoint. A spacious great room stood before them, with a wall-sized stained glass window, similar in style to the one at Peju—only larger—directly ahead.
Ray Lugo stood grasping the highly polished brass knob. His face was long and he looked like he had been crying.
“You okay?” Dixon asked.
“Kevin took it hard.”
You don’t look so good yourself. Vail stepped in and Lugo closed the door behind them. In a low voice, Vail said, “Frederick Montalvo mentioned some kind of disagreement they’ve had with the