Crush - Alan Jacobson [97]
Vail smirked. “No offense to your HR administrator, but let’s leave the threat assessment to us.”
Brix shifted his weight on the bench. “There’s something else about Ortiz.” He paused a moment. “About an hour ago, when Agbayani arrived, I handed him the Ortiz lead and asked him to look into it. As soon as he heard the name, he thought it sounded familiar. Turns out Ortiz was a suspect in the Vallejo murder, Maryanne Bernal.”
Dixon leaned forward. “No shit?”
Brix held up a finger. “Hang on a second. Before you get all excited, it was just an eyewitness account of a big guy with a white pickup. They picked him up and questioned him. He’s got ties to Vallejo, a brother who lives there.”
“An offender may dump a body in an area he’s familiar with,” Vail said.
Brix waved a hand. “Doesn’t matter. It went nowhere. They had nothing on him. And he had no record, not so much as a misde-meanor. And he was one of about forty-five guys they ended up questioning who matched the description.”
“So what did Agbayani think about Ortiz popping up again in connection with a murder investigation?” Vail asked.
“It wouldn’t have been that big a deal. Except that someone fitting Ortiz’s description was seen in the area at the time Isaac Jenkins was killed.”
Vail lifted a brow. “You knew this? Why didn’t you move on him?”
Brix let his gaze linger on Vail’s. “I found out right around the time Scott was killed. We’ve been a little busy.”
Vail held his gaze and didn’t blink.
“Still,” Dixon said, breaking the silent confrontation, “like what happened in Vallejo, a lot of guys fit his general description, so one witness account doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Unless she picks him out of a lineup.”
“She didn’t see his face, only his body.”
“His body?” Dixon sighed. “Make that a poor witness account. Well, it can’t hurt to chat him up. Ask him about the two murders since then.”
Brix shrugged. “It’s probably not worth pursuing.”
Vail slid her legs from beneath the cement table. “You’ve got a feeling about this. And we’ve got questions. I think we should go check it out. I’ll call the AVA board president and tell her we need some more time.”
Dixon rose as well. “Is Ortiz at Silver Ridge?”
Brix pushed himself off the cement bench as if he was lifting a heavy weight. “He’s not working today. But he rents a room from a family off West Spain in downtown Sonoma.”
“The male vic, Jenkins, he was from Sonoma.”
“I’m aware of that,” Brix said.
“How can we be sure Ortiz is going to be there?”
“I called the homeowner and she said Ortiz is home. She thinks he’s sleeping.”
“Does he know we’re coming?” Dixon asked.
Brix shook his head. “If he is our guy—and I’m not ready to say that—then telling him we’re coming by to question him may set him off. No, we’ll go in quietly.”
Vail led the way to the staircase, then glanced up one more time to grab a view of the vineyards. It was so peaceful up here. She hadn’t felt an inner sense of tranquility since the day she and Robby arrived here. Her first visit to the Napa Valley, and it was marred by the rampage of a serial killer. Could she ever visit this place again and not be poisoned by memories of this case? It was a rhetorical thought. She already knew the answer.
“How do you know his landlord didn’t tip him off?” Dixon asked.
Dixon’s voice, echoing in the stairwell, pulled Vail out of her reverie. She realized she had spaced out, staring at the vineyards and mountains, smelling the soil-wet air. As she started down the steps, she heard Brix’s voice somewhere below.
“I explained that we didn’t want to make any trouble for her. But short answer is, we don’t.”
Vail’s “short answer”—to her own rhetorical question—was more visceral. The magical Napa Valley