Crush - Alan Jacobson [98]
THEY TOOK BRIX’S CAR and arrived in Sonoma thirty minutes later. The drive was as picturesque as any of the views they had seen along Highway 29. Vineyards, rolling hills, mountains. And today, the hint of sun burning through the cloud cover.
“Welcome to Sonoma,” Dixon said.
Vail craned her neck around, taking in the small and medium-sized residential homes. “Are there wineries in Sonoma, too?”
Despite the seriousness of their task ahead, Brix and Dixon, sitting beside one another in the front seat, looked at each other and laughed.
“I take it that was a stupid question,” Vail said.
“That’d be a ‘yes’ twice over,” Brix said. “First, it was a stupid question. This entire valley is wine country. Second, Sonoma is considered the birthplace of the California wine industry.”
Vail turned away and looked out at the Readers Bookstore they were passing on the right. “Oh.”
“Up ahead is the downtown plaza,” Dixon said, as Brix turned right onto First Street East. “Besides historic wineries, Sonoma also has some interesting shops and galleries. And lots of good restaurants.”
Vail pointed at a ground-hugging white adobe building with a large cross protruding from its roof. “What did that sign say? Mission San Francisco?”
“Mission San Francisco Solano,” Brix said. “An old church.”
Dixon threw Brix a look. “Give me a break. Calling that a church would be like calling Silver Ridge winery a ‘grape juice manufacturing plant.’” She flicked the side of his head with a finger.
“Hey,” Brix said.
Dixon turned to Vail. “California History 101. There are twenty-one missions. That one’s the last one built—and the first one built under Mexico’s rule, in the 1820s. It’s also where the very first vineyards in the valley were planted. By monks who lived in the mission.”
“Not to interrupt the history lesson,” Brix said, “but we’ve got a mission of our own.” He nodded ahead. “We’re coming up on Ortiz’s house.” He slowed the car.
“Which one?” Dixon asked.
“Wait,” Brix said, braking to a crawl. He leaned forward, peering in the right side view mirror. “He’s right there. Behind us, I passed him.”
Miguel Ortiz was walking the sidewalk, about thirty feet away. Brix pulled over to the curb.
Dixon popped her door. “You sure that’s him?”
Brix shoved the shift into park and got out. He turned toward Ortiz, then caught Dixon’s gaze. “Definitely.”
Ortiz must have recognized Brix’s voice, because he spun around. His eyes found the car . . . the look on Brix’s face, the look on Dixon’s.
And then he ran.
“Shit,” Brix said. “Where the fuck does he think he’s gonna go?” Brix jumped back into the Ford, jammed the gearshift into drive, and accelerated. He swung the car around. Dixon pursued on foot. And Vail unstrapped her seatbelt.
Ortiz crossed the street into the park that sat in the center of the square.
As Brix approached, Vail opened her door. “Let me off!”
Brix swung the car toward the curb and screeched to a stop. “Go.”
Vail spilled out and fell into stride behind Dixon, who was about twenty-five feet off the pace. Ortiz was pretty quick for his size and was headed down the cement tile walk that cut diagonally through the park.
Off to their right lay a playground filled with young children climbing on the structures, mothers out for an early afternoon with their kids. If there was one thing the parents were not counting on when they arrived at the park with their children, it was finding themselves in the middle of a police pursuit.
“Miguel,” Dixon yelled. “Wait up.”
Vail quickly surveyed the kids. She yanked her badge from her belt and held it up, hoping the mothers would see and understand what was going down. Clearly, it had an effect, as a couple of them scooped up their children and swung them away from the approaching