Vail, however, was still staring at the paper.
BRIX SUGGESTED THEY MEET at a restaurant, since none of the task force members had eaten anything for several hours. Dixon pulled into the parking lot, where a large landmark sign read “Brix - Restaurant Gardens Wine Shop.” Had this been another time, she would’ve thought Brix’s choice of eating at the Brix restaurant curious, but with the burden of the past few days weighing heavily, she was only concerned about getting some glucose into her brain and figuring out what the hell was going on.
As they approached the entrance along the dark walkway, patio chairs and coffee tables were occupied by a couple of women toking on cigarettes. Behind them, a wall of windows showcased a brightly lit gift shop stocked with tasteful artwork, wine racks, and clothing.
Near the large wood plank entry doors stood three men huddled in a circle: Brix, Gordon, and Mann.
Dixon and Vail greeted them, then Mann held open the door and they all filed in. The interior was well-appointed in warm woods and a wine motif. Oversize half barrels fitted with red upholstered seats lined the aisle to the left, serving as individual booths. Above, dozens of Chardonnay-shaped bottles jutted out from a central light fixture. Off to the right, on the far side of the restaurant, marble-topped oval tables sat in front of intimate two-seater couches. Perfect for the romantic couple winding down a day of wine tasting and sightseeing.
The kind of Napa experience Vail and Robby had envisioned when they went wheels up at Dulles.
Dixon took in the décor and said, “I’m not sure I can afford this.”
“Yeah, make that two of us,” Gordon said.
There were only a few couples scattered throughout the restaurant, a function of the late hour. Brix greeted the hostess, who was sporting a wide grin and hugging menus across her chest. She motioned for them to follow her.
Gordon jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “I need to hit the head.”
“Ditto,” Mann said. “Meet you at the table.”
“Karen,” Brix said as they continued past the bar to their right, “about a week ago when you got here, you asked me if I owned this place because of my name. I don’t. But I’m part owner of a winery, remember? I don’t do police work because I have to, I do it because I want to. So don’t worry about the cost. I got it handled.”
Brix led them alongside the barrel-walled booths and stopped opposite the servers’ pickup window, then reached out and pulled open a wood door to a private room. “The reserve wine cellar. It’s cozy and gives us the ability to talk about serial killers without disturbing the customers.”
“Good thinking—but this room is . . . ”
“Gorgeous. Elegant. Exclusive. I know.”
To their right, three windows looked out onto the main dining area. But the remaining walls—and ceiling—were lined with side-lying wine bottles encased in hardwood wine racks with dramatic top-down low-voltage lighting, creating an air of showcased uniqueness to each vintage.
“This is my first time in here,” Dixon said, perusing the magnum bottle of Anomaly Vineyards Cabernet. “Probably my last, too.”
Vail and Dixon settled down in chairs facing the windows. Brix took a seat opposite them, then engaged the waiter with a nod as the man entered the room. “Bring us a spread. Whatever you’ve got prepared. We’re hungry and we need some time to talk undisturbed. There’ll be five of us.”
“Yes sir,” the server said.
After he had left the room, Brix turned toward Vail and Dixon. “I know we’re under the gun. I realize you’re leaving in a few hours. And I know Detective Hernandez is still AWOL. But what the hell were you thinking? The warrant—” he lowered his voice and glanced around, even though they were in a private room. “The warrant was denied. You’re both vets here, you know the deal. I mean, what the fuck?”
“It was my call,” Vail said.
“No, Karen, it wasn’t your call. There was no call to make.”
Vail leaned back in her seat. She wasn’t in the mood for this. “What’s done is done. If it matters, it wasn’t a waste.”
“It doesn’t matter, because anything you think you may’ve gotten, it doesn’t count for shit.”
“Legally,” Dixon said, “that’s true. But it is significant.”
Mann and Gordon entered the room and, in unison, craned their necks to take in the décor.
“It’s nice,” Brix said. “We’ve covered it. Have a seat.”
As they settled in, Gordon said, “I take it you’re ripping them a new one.”
“I was just getting started.”
Dixon set both her elbows on the table. “Before you get too upset, the address we found was Ian Wirth’s.”
Gordon stuck out his pudgy hands, palms up. “So Ian Wirth’s address was found in Guevara’s house. Guevara’s company had a contract with the Georges Valley AVA board. Victoria Cameron was a board member and Isaac Jenkins’s business partner was on the board. Are you saying we’re back to thinking Guevara was involved in the Cameron and Jenkins murder? I thought we settled that when we caught Mayfield.”
“Not the least of which,” Brix said, “is that if Guevara’s wrapped up in that, there’s nothing we can do about it because you broke into his fucking house!” He took a breath, calmed himself, and lowered his voice. “Do you see what—”
“It’s not that,” Vail said. She brought both hands to her face and rubbed her bloodshot eyes. “The address. Yes, it was Wirth’s home address. But . . . ” She reached into her pocket and pulled out the paper. Laid it on the table in front of them. “What bothers me is that it’s written in Robby’s handwriting. And yes, before you ask, I’m sure.”
There was silence at the table. The waiter must’ve sensed the opening, because he slipped in with plates cradled across his left forearm. He deftly set them down across the center of the table and said, as he pointed, “Halibut wrapped in prosciutto. Grilled lamb chops with creamy spinach. Artisanal cheese plate with apple slices, spiced almonds, and dried dates. Clams, served with a warm sauce drizzled on top and presented on a bed of sea salt. Finally, fennel sausage pizza. Need anything else, please let me know.” He turned and left.
Austin Mann looked at Brix, who held up his hand. “I got it covered. Honest.”
They all stared at the food. Poking out from between the halibut and lamb chops was the Wirth address. It served as a barrier to the decadent treats in front of them.
“So what does this mean?” Mann finally said.
Vail sat back. “I’m at a loss. I’m too close. I can’t see it objectively. The obvious questions are, Why did Robby know César Guevara? Why did Robby write down Wirth’s home address? Why did he give it to Guevara? What’s Guevara’s relationship to John Mayfield?”
Dixon shook her head. “You’re getting ahead of yourself. We don’t know Robby knew Guevara. All we know is that Guevara was in possession of a piece of paper containing something Robby had written.”
“That’s true,” Brix said. “So let’s all calm down a minute.” He motioned to the food. “Eat. We need to get something in our stomachs.”
They hesitated until Brix himself grabbed a slice of pizza. Then Gordon, Mann, and Dixon dug in. Vail was the last to toss some food on her plate. She reluctantly stabbed at the halibut and scooped the fish into her mouth. But despite the promise of heavenly flavors, she didn’t taste anything.
“The pressing question,” Dixon said, “is why Robby had Ian Wirth’s home address. There’s just no obvious reason for that. Robby was on vacation. He didn’t know Wirth. He had no reason to know him.” She put down her fork, pulled out her phone, and scrolled through the log. “I need Wirth’s phone number.”