Most of the house was dark. A light was on by the entryway, where they’d been standing—legally—about an hour ago. “Look for an office of some kind. A place he’d keep papers, business stuff.”
“Wouldn’t that be at the warehouse?”
“Not necessarily. Depends on the nature of the documents. Does it have anything to do with Superior Mobile Bottling?”
“What exactly is ‘it’?”
Vail moved through the darkness. “Anything related to Robby, Lugo, or Mayfield.” She pointed Dixon toward a room off to her left while she went right. They worked slowly in the dark, until Vail found a flashlight in a drawer in the kitchen. She used it judiciously, holding two fingers across its lens to restrict the beam in case a neighbor could see in through a second- or third-story window.
She pulled her BlackBerry and glanced at the display. She figured they’d broken the seal to the backdoor two minutes ago. How long did that leave them before the police arrived? She had no idea—except that a typical response rate was around nine minutes. But there were so many variables in that figure it was nearly useless to her. Were cruisers nearby when the call came in? Were there private security guards employed by a neighborhood watch group? How far was the closest Police or Sheriff’s Department substation?
Dixon joined her in the hallway. “Nothing. How long do you want to keep pushing our luck?”
“Keep looking down here. I’m going up. You wanna get the hell out, I totally understand.”
Vail took her flashlight up the curving staircase to the second floor. Unfortunately César Guevara lived quite well, and this home had three stories. She would have to move more quickly.
Master bedroom. Bathroom. Checked beneath the four-poster, shone her light behind cabinets, through closets. Guevara was a dapper dresser when he wasn’t working in the warehouse, with dark double-breasted suits that looked like designer cuts. Allen Edmonds and Bruno Magli shoeboxes lined the middle shelf in the cavernous walk-in closet.
This is where she would concentrate her efforts. She grabbed a new pair of black Gold Toe dress socks and slipped them on her hands. It made for awkward groping, but the trade-off was worth it.
She brushed aside his suits, then his shirts, pants . . . looking for a concealed wall safe. Pulled open the drawers of the built-in ebony cabinetry, felt around for a false bottom. Got down on all fours and crawled along the floor, her Gold Toe-clad fingertips probing for a break in the carpet, a concealed seam that might be an invitation to buried treasure. Nothing.
Checked the clock on her BlackBerry. They’d now been in the house nine minutes. At this point, with each passing second, the likelihood of a law enforcement response to their entry bordered on unacceptable risk.
As she started down the stairs, Dixon came running at her. “I got something—but we gotta get outta here. Now. Sonoma PD’s on its way—”
“How do you—”
Dixon turned and led the way out. “Brix. When you went upstairs, I called him, told him to monitor the radio.”
They hit the ground floor and were heading toward the backdoor. Vail wiped down the flashlight and placed it back in the drawer. “Did you touch anything?”
“Don’t know—don’t think so. Maybe a few things—”
Vail, hands still protected by the socks, grabbed for the doorknob. “Does he know? Brix?”
They followed the same roundabout route toward the hedge line, avoiding the motion sensors. “Did I tell him? No. Does he know? Of course, he’s not an idiot.”
As Dixon followed Vail back to the car, Vail pulled off the Gold Toes and shoved them deep into her pocket.
“Neat trick with the socks,” Dixon said. “I get the feeling you’ve done this before.”
“Nope. First time.” And hopefully the last.
After they had climbed into the Ford and slammed their doors, two Sonoma Police Department cruisers pulled up to the Guevara estate, light bars flashing. Vail and Dixon laid their seats back. To any of the cops who cared to look, theirs was an empty vehicle parked at the curb a block and a half away. While their Ford was somewhat out of place in a tony neighborhood like this one, it was dark and empty. The police were more likely focused on the object of their concern: the compromised house, with a peripheral eye peeled for fleeing suspects.
“How long do you want to hang out?” Vail asked.
“Let’s wait for them to get inside, then I’ll fire her up and we’ll back away slowly. Hopefully they didn’t grab our plate.”
“Too far away.”
Dixon lifted her head and peered over the dash. Apparently satisfied the area was clear, she reached forward and started the engine, then backed away as planned, using the side view mirrors as a guide. When they had gotten another two blocks, Dixon angled around a corner and swung the car around, headed away from the scene of their crime.
“You gonna show me what you found?”
“It was dark and I didn’t have a whole lot of time, but I thought it might be important.”
“Let me see it.”
Dixon pulled to the curb, then flicked on the dome light. She stuck her hand inside her blouse, extracted a piece of folded paper, and handed it to Vail.
Vail unfurled it.
“It’s just an address,” Dixon said. “I think it’s Ian Wirth’s. His home.” Dixon thought a moment. “Wirth, Victoria Cameron, and Isaac Jenkins were the only three people who were against Superior getting that bottling contract. Cameron and Jenkins were killed. If I’m right, and this is Wirth’s home address . . . we may be on to something. There’d be no reason for Guevara to have it. Right?”
Vail sat there staring at the page. Off somewhere in the distance she heard what Dixon was saying. But she was seeing—and thinking— something else. Because in front of her was an address, all right.
But what caught her attention was that it was in Robby’s handwriting.
27
Are you sure?” Dixon asked. “Robby’s handwriting?”
Vail wiped away the tears that had pooled in her lower lids. “No doubt whatsoever.”
Dixon looked away, facing the windshield. The interior dome light made the glass into a mirror from which their distorted reflections stared back at them. Neither one looked pleased at this news.
Vail glanced at the clock. “I leave for the airport in six hours. How the hell am I gonna solve this in six hours?”
“I know this is hard for you, Karen. It’d be hard for me, too. But have faith in us. This case doesn’t have to be wrapped up before you get on that plane.”
“The longer Robby is missing, the less chance we have of finding him. And if he is around here—in Napa, in California, on the West Coast—the thought of flying twenty-five hundred miles away is . . . ” She shook her head. “It’s like I’m abandoning him. I don’t know if that makes sense.”
Dixon placed a hand on Vail’s forearm. “Of course it does. I’m sorry. But I promise you, I won’t give up. We won’t give up.”
Vail looked down at the paper bearing Robby’s handwriting. “What does this mean?”
“At its most basic level, Robby wrote someone’s address on a piece of paper and it ended up in César Guevara’s possession. At the moment, that’s all it means.”
That’s not all it means. There’s something here. But as has been the case this past week, nothing adds up. Nothing makes sense. We catch the serial killer, who says, “There’s more to this than you know.” And he’s being truthful. So what’s wrong with me? Why can’t I figure it out?
Dixon pulled her phone and started tapping away. She stopped, dropped it into her lap, and waited. A moment later, it buzzed and she lifted it to her ear. “Yeah.” She listened a second and then said, “Okay. Meet you there.” Dixon hung up, then yanked the gearshift into drive.