Crush - Alan Jacobson [5]
They shuffled through the breezeway of the winery, their tour guide explaining the various sculptures that were set back in alcoves in the walls, and how they had been gathered over the course of five decades, one from each continent. When they passed through the mouth of the wine cave, the drop in temperature was immediately discernable.
“The cave is a near-constant fifty-five degrees, which is perfect for storing our reds,” the guide said. The group crowded into the side room that extended off the main corridor. “One thing about the way we grow our grapes,” the woman said. “We plant more vines per square foot than your typical winery because we believe in stressing our vines, making them compete for water and nutrients. It forces their roots deeper into the ground and results in smaller fruit, which gives more skin surface area compared to the juice. And since the skin is what gives a red varietal most of its flavor, you can see why our wines are more complex and flavorful.”
She stopped beside a color-true model of two grapevines that appeared poised to illustrate her point, but before she could continue her explanation, a male guide came from a deeper portion of the cave, ushering another group along toward the exit. He leaned into the female guide’s ear and said something. Her eyes widened, then she moved forward, arms splayed wide like an eagle. “Okay, everyone, we have to go back into the tasting area for a while.” She swallowed hard and cleared her throat, as if there was something caught, then said, “I’m terribly sorry for this interruption, but we’ll make it worth your while, I promise.”
Vail caught a glimpse of a husky Hispanic worker who was bringing up the rear. She elbowed Robby and nodded toward the guy. “Something’s wrong, look at his face.” She moved against the stream of exiting guests and grabbed the man’s arm.
“What’s going on?” Vail asked.
“Nothing, sigñora, all’s good. Just a . . . the power is out, it’s very dark. Please, go back to the tasting room—”
“It’s okay,” Robby said. “We’re cops.”
“Policia?”
“Something like that.” Vail held up her FBI credentials and badge. “What’s wrong?”
“Who say there is something wrong?”
“It’s my job to read people. Your face tells a story, señor. Now—” she motioned with her fingers. “What’s the deal?”
He looked toward the mouth of cave, where most of the guests had already exited. “I did not tell you, right?”
“Of course not. Now . . . tell us, what?”
“A body. A dead body. Back there,” he said, motioning behind him with a thumb.
“How do you know the person’s dead?”
“Because she cut up bad, señora. Her . . . uh, los pechos . . . her . . . tits—are cut off.”
Robby looked over the guy’s shoulder, off into the darkness. “Are you sure?”
“I found the body, yes, I am sure.”
“What’s your name?”
“Miguel Ortiz.”
“You have a flashlight, Miguel?” Vail asked.
The large man rooted out a set of keys from his pocket, pulled off a small LED light and handed it to her.
“Wait here. Don’t let anyone else past you. You have security at the winery?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Then call them on your cell,” Vail said, as she and Robby backed away, deeper into the tunnel. “Tell them to shut this place down tight. No one in or out. No one.”
AS A FEDERAL AGENT, Karen Vail was required to carry her sidearm wherever she traveled. But Robby, being a state officer, transported his weapon in a locked box, and it had to remain there; he was not permitted to carry it on his person. This fact was not lost on Vail as she removed her sidearm from her Velcro fanny pack. She reached down to her ankle holster and pulled a smaller Glock 27 and handed it to Robby.
They moved slowly through the dim cave. The walls were roughened gunite, dirt brown and cold to the touch. The sprayed cement blend gave the sense of being in a real cave, save for its surface uniformity.
“You okay in here?” Robby asked.
“Don’t ask. I’m trying not to think about it.” But she had no choice. Vail had developed