“Goddamn him.” Dixon looked at the screen, where the image of Ray Lugo had stared back at them moments ago. “Karen, with me. Let’s go pay a visit to Guevara. You tried rattling his cage before. Maybe we need to try a different approach.”
25
The sun’s March burn melted behind the mountains like wax over a bottle of Madeira: beginning with a smoldering deformation, then accelerating as the heat built, spreading, losing definition, and enveloping all.
They arrived at Superior Mobile Bottling without a warrant in hand, and little time to kill. But kill it they must . . . because going in strong against a César Guevara without the ammunition to back it up had already failed. And at present, their best ammunition was not filled with gunpowder but with written words.
Dixon pulled the Ford Crown Victoria against the curb, down the street from Superior’s facility in American Canyon, and shoved the gearshift into park.
“How long?”
Dixon glanced at the dashboard clock. “No way of knowing.”
“Your judges?”
“Not always sympathetic.”
“At least you got a look around last time we were here.”
“I didn’t have much time,” Dixon said. “It was a quick once-over. We really need to tear the place apart.”
Vail turned and looked at the fading light in the distance. The sky behind her was a purplish black, like a fading bruise on an otherwise pleasing landscape. Ahead, there was still a yellow hue, dissolving to dusky charcoal as the minutes ticked by.
“You okay?”
Dixon’s question pulled Vail from her reverie. “I’m not going to see the sun in Napa again for . . . who knows how long.”
“Did you ever see the sun in Napa?”
Vail chuckled.
Dixon’s phone vibrated. She tapped the Bluetooth receiver. “Dixon.”
“Roxx.” It was Brix’s voice. “You want the good news or the bad news first?”
“I’ll take the good.”
“Just spoke with Timmons from NSIB. He’s taken over as point for us so we have a consistent contact, since it seems we’re going to need them long-term. Or longer-term than we originally thought.”
“Yeah, no shit.”
“So Timmons says he’s got a list compiled of all the potential locations where must is produced within earshot of the Napa Valley Wine Train whistle. There’s a margin of error because it’s not scientific or anything like that. But this is like a freaking needle in a haystack, anyway.”
“How many potential sites are there?” Dixon asked.
“Sixty-plus. NSIB’s got some guys looking into the whole list, just to see if there are any that can be eliminated based on some set of criteria Timmons and his team are developing. You want to be plugged into what they’re thinking?”
“No, we’ve got enough to do. Let them do their jobs. Touch base with him from time to time, and if they sound like they’ve landed on the wrong planet, let me know and we’ll meet with them, set them straight. Otherwise, let’s see what they turn up.” Dixon threw Vail a sideways glance. “Redd—I said I wanted the good news first.”
“By comparison, that is the good news.”
“I’m not sure we want to know,” Vail said, “but what’s the bad?”
“Search warrant was denied. Mirabelli rejected our argument. Said there was no direct connection between . . . well, between anything. Get him something that’s more than just a series of coincidences and he’ll reconsider. What we’ve got doesn’t even rise to reasonable suspicion.”
Dixon shook her head. “Well, that’s just great.”
“And for what it’s worth,” Brix said, “DOJ wasn’t too excited about our WITSEC request for Merilynn.”
Vail said, “We didn’t give them anything particularly compelling, and that video Ray made didn’t help her case any.”
“One other thing. The Hall of Justice fountain vic has an ID. Kaitlin Zago. They’re putting together a backgrounder on her but there doesn’t appear to be any obvious connection to Mayfield’s vics. And—the manual search through the handcuff database is taking longer than I’d hoped. I put a call into Peerless in case they can tell us who they sold that serial number to. But they’re back east, so we probably won’t hear from them till tomorrow. Where are you two?”
“Sitting a block away from Guevara’s place. Waiting on the warrant that’s not gonna come. We’ll check in with you in a bit.” Dixon reached up and disconnected the call, then leaned back hard in her seat. “Now what?”
Vail pointed ahead. “Let’s go take a look around. See what we find.”
Dixon did not hesitate. She kicked over the engine and proceeded down the street into Superior Mobile Bottling’s parking lot. Standard sodium vapor lamps illuminated the area in front of the building where about a dozen spots sat empty. Except for a fluorescent fixture in the office, everything appeared dark.
Dixon stopped the car and craned her neck to look through the front glass door. “What do you think?”
“Go around back. Let’s see if there are any cars in the lot or lights on in the warehouse.”
Dixon pulled up to an iron gate that blocked their path approximately halfway along the right side of the structure. “Was this here last time?”
Vail sat back. “It was rolled all the way open.” She popped her door, got out, and stepped up to the fence. Grabbed the upright wrought iron struts, peered into the back region of the property, didn’t see anything.
She turned and headed back to the car. “Nothing. We got a location on his house?”
“I can get it.” Dixon pulled her phone, made a call, and was soon jotting down the address. Twenty-five minutes later, they were pulling into the Sonoma neighborhood where César Guevara lived.
From what Vail could see in the complete darkness, it appeared to be an immaculately cared for community, with houses that almost looked out of place, possessing an eastern Victorian grandeur.
“Nice neighborhood,” Vail said, straining to get a look at the passing homes.
“Oh, yeah,” Dixon said. She held up her pad and caught the headlight of a trailing car. “Millions. Each one of these homes. Five mil, maybe more.” Dixon glanced one more time at the address, then looked left at the house. “This is it.”
“You said ‘millions’ and ‘this is it.’ Almost in the same sentence. César Guevara lives here?”
Dixon hiked her brow, then nodded. “Looks like mobile bottling is quite lucrative.”
Vail grabbed the handle and pulled. “Quite.”
Dixon and Vail walked down the cobblestone path, passed through a short white picket fence, and stepped up to the hand-carved hardwood door. Dixon stuck out her hand to knock, then pulled it back. “What are we doing?”
“We’re about to see if this is Guevara’s current address. And if it is, if he’s home.”
Dixon stepped back from the door, out of the porch light. “Let’s sit on the house. Watch for a bit. See who comes and goes.”
Vail glanced behind Dixon at the house. “I don’t have a lot of time left, Roxx.”
“We can’t run an investigation based on what your schedule is.”
Vail turned away and rested her hands on her hips. “I know. Let’s at least talk to him, confront him with what we’ve got, see what gives.”
“You’ve done that. Didn’t work.”
“We’ve got something now,” Vail said. “We can bluff him.”
“We don’t even have enough to get a warrant. You’ve gone toe to toe with Guevara. Is he the type of guy who can be bullied or tricked?”
Vail sighed. What does she want me to do? I’m leaving in a few hours and I’m nowhere on finding Robby. No leads. Except—maybe—Guevara. “Probably not. But I need to try.”