Lethal Vintage (16 page)

“Maybe it has to have a number in it,” said Sunny. “The new vintage is also the only vintage. His first. I think it was 2001.”

“Europa2001,” said Rivka, typing. “Nothing. How many tries do we get before it locks?”

Sunny held her breath. “Try Europa01.”

Rivka typed and hit Return. The screen blinked black and then, starting from the top, the photograph began to unravel, bit by bit. A moment later, the photograph was gone and they were staring at a letter on Taurian letterhead.

Sunny looked at Rivka, put her finger to her lips, and went to pull down the shade in the office window. Her mouth had gone dry and her heart thumped double time. She stared at the screen. “Holy crap.”

“That’s why the file was so big,” said Rivka. “It wasn’t a photograph. It’s a message hidden inside a photograph.”

Sunny reached over and hit Control-P. She picked up the printout as though handling an ancient scroll. It was dated May, just two months earlier.

Dear Astrid,

Per our discussion, Keith will help you set up the LLC through the office in the Caymans. I have given him power of attorney for any legal documents that need to be filed. You have access to funding via account #129635. It should be adequate for your needs, but if not, Chimon can assist you at tel. (+49) 030-90616-5002.

As for the POs, if we can’t get them in time, we’ll have to create them. Also the letters of intent and whatever else Keith says we need. Do all the correspondence in Russian. That will make the documents look more authentic and also slow things down if we happen to get into trouble. Translations are tedious and expensive! Keith can provide you with samples of what this kind of thing looks like. You can grab their logos off the Web. They don’t have to be perfect, they’re just placeholders, but we need them now. By the time anybody questions them, we’ll have the real thing. Leave nothing to chance!

I look forward to seeing you in Rome, though I was sorry to hear your father would be away.

Sincerely,

Oliver

Sunny folded the letter and put it in her pocket. “Shut that thing down and let’s get out of here.”

“Do you really want to carry that around?” said Rivka, gesturing to the letter. “I think it’s safe to assume Anna died because of what’s in that letter.”

Sunny looked around the office and shivered. “No one knows what happened here tonight. I’ll give it to Steve first thing in the morning on my way in. Come on, I’ll drive you home.”

Rivka shut down the computer. “You want to take this home?” she said, tapping it.

Sunny frowned. “Let’s leave it here. I won’t need it tonight.”

Rivka picked up her backpack to leave, then changed her mind. She disconnected the computer and shoved it in a desk drawer, then followed Sunny out, pushing her bike beside her.

It was late when Sunny finally pulled up in front of her house. She walked through the door and kept going straight to the shower. Clothes hit the floor. Hot water came down. Steam filled the bathroom like a sauna. Her skin turned pink in the heat. The night had drained her body of its warmth. When she felt warm again at last, she dried off and dropped the towel next to the bed, slipping between cool sheets. Her heart thumped in her ears, its percussive beat her last impression before she fell into a dreamless, timeless oblivion. She woke to full sun. Late, again. She pulled on a clean T-shirt and jeans, brushed her teeth, grabbed her bag, and walked out the front door. The morning was still fresh and cool. Seven-thirty, maybe eight o’clock. She breathed in the sweetness of the front yard with its tangle of herbs and flowers, everything climbing, reaching, straining toward the sun. Mammals, thought Sunny. We’re such savages. Ripping and crushing everything around us.

Someone had stuck a flyer on the truck’s windshield. Out canvassing early, thought Sunny, or late last night. Ambitious. The single sheet of paper was folded in thirds. She tossed it on the seat beside her, then changed her mind and picked it up. It was moist with condensation and the ink stuck together in places. She peeled it open. It wasn’t the flyer she expected, nor another of the nasty notes she sometimes got from the guy next door complaining that her roses were climbing over his fence or her yard needed weeding or she’d left her truck parked in front of his house, not hers, thus preventing him from parking immediately in front of his house, which had the perverse effect of making her want to park in front of his house instead of hers. No, this was something odd. A printout of a dark, muddy photograph with three words written underneath. Silence is golden. She looked closer. Someone sleeping. An arm, a face in profile, a tiny fleck of gold. She put a hand to her ear, touching the gold stud. The hairs on her arms rose and a chill tickled the back of her neck. She locked both doors, made herself turn around and look behind her in the bed of the truck, saw with relief it was unoccupied, and started the engine. Her eyes took in the street, the front yard, her little house with its cedar shingles and brick stoop. A car passed, its driver oblivious to her scrutiny. A kid on a bike turned down the street and pedaled by. Whoever had left the photograph was long gone.

The news van from the local TV channel was parked out front of the police station. So much for that plan. Sunny made a U-turn and headed toward work. Traffic was moving slowly down Main. Two house painters in work whites came out of Bismark’s carrying coffee and got in a truck loaded with ladders and buckets. Sunny pulled in after them. She sat in the truck and dialed Rivka’s mobile number. It rang until voice mail picked up. She hung up and dialed again. The third time, Rivka answered.

“I was on the other phone.”

“You’re still at home?”

“I’m running late. I’m just out the door. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

“Listen, Riv, do me a favor. Go outside and take a look around. On your doorstep, your car, your bike.”

“Right now?”

“Yeah.” Sunny waited.

Rivka came back on the line. “If you left me an Easter basket, somebody stole it.”

“Nothing on your car?”

“Just dust. Why?”

“Somebody left a very creepy message on my windshield this morning. I’ll tell you about it when I see you. Listen, instead of going to work, meet me at Bismark’s as soon as you can, okay? I’m here now.”

“What’s going on?”

“Just get over here and I’ll show you what I mean.”

She spent the next twenty minutes listening to a backlog of messages on her home phone, the office phone, and the main number for the restaurant. Andre had called several times. Sunny checked the time. It was nearly eight o’clock. He would be busy at work. Most of the other calls were business. Reservations, sales reps hawking wine and restaurant supplies, one of the bussers asking to change his day off. Sergeant Harvey had called the restaurant and the house, sounding stern and official in both messages and reiterating his request for a DNA sample. Franco Bertinotti had called to say there would be a memorial service for Anna, but the connection faltered at precisely the wrong moment and she couldn’t hear the details. She finished jotting down notes and went inside the café. The smell of fresh coffee almost made her forget how the day had begun. She took a cup and a newspaper and chose a seat with her back to the wall and kept her eyes on the door, like a gangster wary of assassins.

The front page had a follow-up story on the Wilson murder. The only new development was that the police were continuing the investigation, meaning there were no new developments. At the end was a notice saying the memorial service was being held at eleven o’clock at the Mission San Rafael. That, at least, was helpful.

Sunny put the paper down and watched the morning commuters come and go. She was thinking that she might just sit in this spot all day and not move or say anything when Rivka came in and flopped down across from her.

“So what’s all this about a creepy note?”

“You want a coffee? I need a refill.”

Sunny came back with two fresh cups. “Don’t you think it’s weird that we have gods associated with wine and fire, but none for coffee? Where is the espresso god? If Americans were going to worship anything, wouldn’t it be coffee? Or what about chocolate? Where is the Prometheus of chocolate?”

Rivka put down the newspaper. “In Mexico City. He’s called Quetzalcoatl. I don’t know who’s responsible for coffee. I think that was up to your people.”

“The Italians started it,” said Sunny. “Espresso, at least. Or was it the Turks? Wait, I remember. The Ethiopians started coffee. The Abyssinians. It was their job to come up with a god for it.”

“Maybe it’s not holy,” said Rivka.

“Of course it’s holy. It’s as holy as wine.”

“If Americans were going to worship anything, they’d worship TV,” said Rivka. “Where’s the television god? Or the god of guns. Are you going to tell me about the creepy note or not? You’re freaking out, I can tell.”

“I know.” Sunny slid the folded paper across the table. “That was on my windshield this morning. Look at my ear. See that? Normally I take my earrings off when I go to bed. Observe the gold post. That photograph was taken last night.”

“Somebody came into your house and got close enough to take a picture without waking you. How’d they get in? Was your door locked?”

“A camel train could have come through that place last night without waking me. I always lock the door, but, you know, I was pretty tired last night. Maybe I forgot. I don’t know. And I was sleeping the sleep of the dead.”

“Don’t say that,” said Rivka. “You think they knew about what we found? There’s no way anybody could have known, right?”

“You mean the letter? No way. You think?”

“I don’t see how. I didn’t tell anyone anything last night. Not even Jason. I went straight to bed.”

“Me, too. But somebody obviously knows we cracked the code.” Sunny put her head in her hands and scrubbed at her hair, then rubbed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose before looking back at Rivka. “The only thing creepier than somebody in the house watching me sleep is somebody watching us at Wildside last night.”

“It’s definitely creepier that they were in your house.”

“You know what I mean.”

“And why does it have to be about last night? You know lots of information about this case. Maybe they just want to shut you up in general.”

“Maybe.”

They sat there for a while without talking. Pretty soon Sunny noticed Wade Skord stomping the dust off his boots outside the café door. She touched Rivka’s hand and gave her a look. Rivka nodded, silently agreeing to wait before they revealed what they’d learned last night to anyone, even Wade. Wade got his coffee and was scanning the room for a table when he spotted them.

“Isn’t it a bit late for you restaurateurs to be loafing around?” he said, taking a seat.

“Just fueling up,” said Sunny. “And contemplating this.” She handed him the paper and explained where she’d found it.

“I think it’s safe to assume it’s a threat, right?” said Sunny.

“Unless you’re looking for a roommate.”

“Could it have been taken through your bedroom window?” said Rivka.

“I doubt it. They were all closed except for the one right next to the bed, and they’d have had to push it open more and climb
almost all the way through it to get the right angle. I’m sure I would have heard a window opening right there in the bedroom. They’re all sticky and loud.”

“You figure it was Seth?” said Wade. “He showed up at your place once already trying to keep you quiet.”

“Or someone he hired,” said Sunny.

The girl behind the counter called Wade’s name. He got up and came back chewing a bagel. He tapped the paper with a fingernail as hard as flint. “I don’t like this. This isn’t just some nasty prank, you know. Seth or otherwise, whoever tiptoed through your tulips last night has done it before. This could be the same guy who killed your friend. You tell Steve about it?”

“Not yet.”

“You need to. Right away.”

“I’ll call from the restaurant. Speaking of that, we’d better hit it.”

Wade stood up. “I’m coming with you.”

Three cars pulled into the back parking lot at Wildside and three puzzled drivers got out, collecting in front of the office window, which had been boarded up with wide planks.

“You been remodeling?” said Wade.

“What the funk?” said Sunny.

They went inside. The kitchen was as they’d left it, but Sunny’s office had been ransacked. Carefully, but ransacked nonetheless. Files were out, drawers were open, books were off the shelves. Even the painting of lemons had been taken down and leaned against the wall. Sunny found the copy of Simple French Food on top of a heap on the floor. The copy of Anna’s e-mail she’d left there was gone. Rivka crossed to the desk drawer. The laptop was gone, too.

“I think I need some air,” Sunny said, and walked outside. Rivka and Wade followed her. They sat on the back stoop.

“You have the devil weed?” said Sunny.

“Smokes?” said Rivka. “Not anymore. Remember, we’re reformed.”

“Damn.”

“That’s Harvey’s handiwork if I’m not mistaken,” said Wade. “I recognize his style from when they did my place. Polite but thorough.”

“At least they boarded up the window when they were done,” said Rivka.

“Nice of them,” said Sunny.

“Gives you a chance to do your spring cleaning,” said Wade.

“I needed a new laptop, anyway,” said Sunny.

“And I thought Steve had a crush on you,” said Rivka.

“Maybe this is his way of showing it,” said Wade. “Kind of sweet, really.”

“Anything’s possible,” said Sunny.

“Why break a perfectly good window?” said Sunny, her voice rising into the telephone. “You could open the back door with a credit card. Or you could have called me! I would have come down and let you in. I’d give you a key. Do you know what that window will cost to replace?”

“You should have thought of that a few days ago. You should have helped me out, Sunny. This is a murder investigation, not a tea party. You told me to get a search warrant, so I got one. We came in the easiest way we could and left the place secure. You can’t ask for more than that.”

Sunny sighed. She’d been on hold so long waiting for Sergeant Harvey that the phone made her ear numb. She crossed the room and closed her office door. “All right. Fine. You win. You want help? I’m going to help you out right now. Last night Rivka and I were fiddling around with those e-mails Anna forwarded and we solved a little riddle for you. That photograph of Oliver and the other woman? It’s not just a picture. It’s a letter. That’s what Seth meant by ‘Control your fate.’ You hit Control-F8 and it asks for a password, then unravels to show a letter. It’s some pretty incriminating stuff having to do with his business practices—fraud, what I assume is a Swiss bank account number, everything. That’s what Anna found, that’s why she sent it to me for safekeeping. Presumably, that’s why she died. You have my computer now, you can take a look yourself, but you’ll need the password.”

“What is it?”

“First tell me one thing. Is the autopsy back? Do you know how she died?”

“Are you trying to pressure me, Sunny?”

“Not at all,” she said quickly. “I’m just trying to help you—help us—put the pieces together.”

Sergeant Harvey hesitated. “Suffocation.”

“What about the encryption? Any luck cracking it for real?”

“No comment.”

“Any other real leads? I mean other than the obvious, which would be Oliver and Keith, right? It had to be one of the two of them, right?”

“Sunny…”

“I know, you can’t talk about it. What about this woman Astrid? Have you contacted her? She knows everything that was going on with Oliver’s business.”

“We’re trying. We haven’t been able to track her down yet.”

“And did Oliver tell you how his computer security worked? How the system backed up every night at two in the morning?”

“Yep. Sounds like he told you, too.”

“We had a little conversation yesterday. I ran out of gas and Molly Seth picked me up. Long story. So have you found it? If it backs up online, it must be accessible online somewhere. I’ve googled it a bunch, but I haven’t been able to find anything. Have you had any luck?”

“Nothing yet. Believe me, we’re working on it. Listen, if you’re going to keep asking questions, let’s make it official and you can come on down to the station.”

“No can do. I’ve got, like, eighty-six people coming by for a fancy lunch in a couple of hours.”

“Then give me the password and we can both go back to work.”

“Europa01. ‘She’s bullish on the new vintage.’ He was referring to the artwork on his wine. Europa. The vintage is 2001.”

“Got it. Thanks for that.”

Sunny heard the dispatch in the background and Sergeant Harvey respond. “Sunny, I’ve gotta get going. We can talk later.”

“Okay.”

“Oh, and McCoskey?”

“Yeah.”

“You’ve got until tomorrow noon to give us that DNA sample. Otherwise I haul you in and do it the hard way. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“Good. Sorry about the window.”

“No problem.”

She hung up the phone and grabbed her car keys.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” she said to Rivka on her way out.

“Where are you going?”

“Anna’s memorial. Do the best you can without me.”

The memorial was held in the old pink Mission San Rafael, its plaster brilliant in the midday sun. Easels outside the entrance to the church held collages of photographs spanning an abbreviated life. Sunny stopped to look at one of a gangly adolescent Anna in a gymnastics leotard, hair pulled back in a tight bun, legs like stalks, with the same daring smile Sunny had seen on her face just five days ago.

The crowd filled the pews and lined the walls. Sunny stood at the back of the church straining to hear what was being said up front. A priest led the congregation in prayer and Sunny mumbled along with everyone else. The open doors behind her seemed to suck the last of the cool air out of the shadows instead of offering relief from the heat. It became stifling hot. Soon her armpits were slick with sweat and a trickle ran down her side. The black pumps she wore to solemn occasions pinched her toes. She studied what she could see of the pulpit, wondering if her flowers had arrived in time, and if so, which of the arrangements—all of them ugly and unnatural-looking—might be hers. She’d placed the order hastily this morning, right after she looked up Anna’s mother’s number and left her a message saying she would be at the service.

Up near the front, Keith Lachlan was standing against the wall, towering over those around him. Marissa wasn’t with him. Sunny scanned the crowd. She could see Oliver Seth in the front row next to Anna’s mother. The seat on the other side of him was empty, as though no one else dared to go near him. Anna’s father, the grizzled old artist, was slumped at the end of the row. In between prayers
and hymns, people stood and spoke about Anna’s childhood and early days in California. Sunny caught a word here and there. She began to feel nauseous. The crowd at the back stirred restlessly and fanned themselves with their programs. Several people slipped out. The congregation was reciting “The Lord Is My Shepherd,” when Troy Stevens inched past Sunny and out the door. She followed.

He walked down a path between palm trees in the dazzling light and sat on a bench with a view of Mount Tamalpais, standing like a sentry to the west. He put his head in his hands.