Sharpshooter (9 page)

The weeds behind the winery quickly covered her socks with pinpricks and burrs. Ticks, thought Sunny, even if I don’t get lost or eaten by coyotes, I’m going to be covered in disease-bearing ticks, not to mention poison oak. She zipped up her jacket against the imagined onslaught of ticks and pushed her way through the live oak and manzanita underbrush that grew between the Douglas firs, digger pines, and oaks. And rattlesnakes, thought Sunny. I am going to step on a rattlesnake, who will then bite me and thrash around, hooked into my flesh by its sharp fangs. But it won’t matter because I will die of a heart attack at the sight of it. Branches scraped past her face and clawed at her hair. Be reasonable, she thought. The snakes are nicely tucked away in their dens sleeping by now, and other than mountain lions, there was not much else to fear out here. Really, what are the chances of being mauled by a wild animal? These things don’t happen. But then, how often do people go scraping
through the underbrush at night? Best not to think about it. She thought of Wade instead, when he said, “I’ve never been afraid of the dark and I’m not about to start now.” There was nothing in the landscape by night that wasn’t there by day. She could see perfectly well, even in the dense brush, and the night was calm and pretty. She shoved ahead.

The narrow, densely forested draw made walking difficult, and she often had to duck or squeeze between the narrow trunks of the tightly packed vegetation. After fifteen minutes of struggling through the cloying, prickly underbrush, claustrophobia began to settle in her mind. She plunged deeper into the brush, knowing it would be just as hard to work her way out as in, even assuming she kept a straight course. With no landmarks to help her keep her bearings, she navigated by selecting a tree as far up ahead as she could see and making her way straight toward it. Once there, she chose another, and so on.

Ten minutes later, the ground began to rise and the brush and trees thinned. After a steep climb and scramble over loose rock that had the annoying tendency to give way as soon as she put her weight on it, the top of the ridge arrived suddenly, cleanly forested with mature Douglas firs evenly spaced, and offering a moonlit view of Wade’s house, the vineyard, and the winery, all neatly arranged below her like a storybook drawing. To the south, a sea of hillocks ran toward the valley, every third or fourth dotted with a ranchette’s light or two, and further to the south, the lights of Napa spread out. To the northeast, a series of wooded rises hid the Beroni estate. Sunny studied the shape of the hills between her and Beroni, imagining how their contours would look when she got closer and her perspective shifted. She picked out unique-looking trees and bald spots and placed them in relation to one another in a map in her head.
Then she looked around at what she could see of the ridge she was standing on, noting the shape of the tallest trees. Getting lost could add hours to her night hike. She comforted herself with the thought that in the worst case, if she became utterly lost, she could always follow the moon to the west, where she would strike vineyard or road eventually.

The east side of the ridge plunged quickly back into tall chaparral, obscuring any landmarks. It would have been much faster to skip all this bushwhacking, thought Sunny, and walk straight across the vineyard, but that would be risky, if the goal was to stay out of sight, especially on a moonlit night like Thursday. The killer would not have taken the risk. Underfoot, a thick layer of fallen live oak leaves and pine needles cushioned each step and left few prints. It seemed doubtful that any sign of the killer’s journey would remain. Near the bottom of the ravine, the live oaks, manzanita, bay, and digger pines closed in more tightly, and she worked to squeeze between them. It was also darker down there, with only eight or ten feet of visibility. As she groped through a particularly dense thicket of underbrush, she thought she saw something scuttle away to the right. She froze, searching the darkness and listening. There were sounds that might have been a bird flicking up dry leaves in a search for insects, or a lizard’s movements. She felt suddenly far from home, farther than she actually was. She pushed on, eager to get to the top of the next rise. From there, she would be able to see the lake and the gazebo below. Sharp branches scraped her hands and face as she forced her way through the brush. When she slipped, her foot catching on a dead branch, she thought for a moment the branches would catch her, but they gave way under her weight and she fell, her hands hitting the rocky soil hard and branches tearing into her side. She scrambled to her feet, but could feel
the sting of a cut or puncture on the back of her arm, and her palms burned, scored with abrasions. The hot sensation of angry tears welled up and her throat tightened.

“Shit!”

She examined her hands and poked her fingers through the tear in her jacket by her armpit, groping the wound underneath. “Shit,” she said more softly at the pain in her leg. Her knee was bruised, but there was no serious damage, she thought. When her heart settled down, she walked on. It was not much further to the base of the hill, and as the terrain grew steeper, she was more easily able to find openings between the trees. After a few minutes of trudging uphill and clambering over scree, she was at the top. As it turned out, the top was covered with brush and forest and didn’t offer the overview of Beroni she had hoped for. Still, it seemed certain that the lake would be near the bottom on the other side.

She went on more slowly, giving herself more time to negotiate the way. The trees seemed to go on forever, and she began to consider the possibility that she had strayed off course and was headed into the dark open stretch of hills to the south, having missed Beroni Vineyards altogether. There was no choice but to keep going until at last, after what seemed too long and too far to be right, she caught a glimpse of something shiny through the trees. A moment later, she suddenly broke into open, flat space. She stood still, staring at the lake. Her watch read ten-fifteen. The hike had taken an hour. It proved that it would have been possible, and even easy, for the killer to wait until Wade had put his rifle back after shooting it, then slip in, retrieve it, hike to Beroni unseen, and kill Jack. Unfortunately, it also proved how easy it would have been for Wade to do so.

A fringe of cattails crowded one end of the lake, and at the
other, the lawn rolled up to the base of the vineyard. In the middle of the lawn, shiny white in the moonlight, was the gazebo. At the top of the hill opposite, above the vineyard, was the Beroni mansion with its Victorian tower. Palm trees lined the driveway, which circled in front of the house and then dropped down toward the lake, sending off a narrow shoot of pavement before winding back to the main road. This narrower road led to the winery, tucked among the trees to the east. There was no pavement beyond that, just the dirt tracks that ran beside and between the sections of the vineyard. Behind the main house were other buildings, including, she assumed, Jack’s house, which she’d heard described as a six-bedroom, three-bath “cottage” built by one of his ancestors a century before.

Sunny stepped back into the woods a few paces, letting the shadow of the trees shield her from view without obscuring her line of sight, the way the murderer would have. Steve Harvey had said that the shooter was standing about a hundred yards away to the southwest. That would be close to where she was now. Sunny imagined watching Jack Beroni emerge from the compound behind the mansion and stroll down the hill on the paved road. He would be plainly visible, even obvious, with the white shirtfront of his tuxedo reflecting the moonlight. At the winery, he would veer off the road and take the path down to the gazebo, where he would stand on the steps, admiring the lake. Soon he would be bored, annoyed to be having this appointment in the first place, and now doubly annoyed to be kept waiting. He’d take a cigarette from the case in his breast pocket and smoke while he waited. She could almost see him standing there now, one hand on the railing. Killing him would be easy, not even a difficult shot for a decent marksman, or woman, especially with the help of a night-vision scope such as
the one Wade’s gun was equipped with. She glanced around as though the rifle would still be there, leaning against a tree, right where the killer had left it.

It seemed like a good time to go have a closer look at the scene of the crime. Sunny skirted the lake and walked across the lawn, enjoying its springy feel underfoot. Suddenly the night felt open and easy, the ominous feeling of the forest had vanished. She stopped just short of the gazebo. They’d cleaned the blood from the steps, but the stain was still visible on the smooth white paint, even by moonlight. Up close, she could see where the long, slender puddles had formed on the stairs and a wide pool had spread out from the body. She shivered and stepped carefully inside the gazebo. One of the posts had a nick out of it, and she wondered if the bullet had struck there after passing through the victim’s body. She reached out to touch the spot, stopped, listened, and was just about to turn around, instinct having told her to look before she had the conscious thought to do so, when a hand touched her shoulder and she screamed.

“Jesus H. Christ!” she yelled.

A man jumped back.

Sunny stared, not breathing. It took a moment to recognize Gabe Campaglia. “Shit. Sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry. You scared me. What the heck are you doing creeping around here at night?”

He grimaced. “Me? I work here. What in the hell are you doing creeping around at night? Who are you, anyway? I’m not the one trespassing, among other things.”

“Sonya,” she said, gasping for breath. “I’m Sonya. I just wanted to have a look at where Jack was killed.”

“At night?”

“I didn’t want to bother Al and Louisa. I had some questions about the crime scene.”

She could see him try to place her. She said, “I saw you drive by late this afternoon, while I was talking to your father.”

“Who are you again?”

“My name is Sonya McCoskey. I’m looking into Jack’s murder on behalf of a friend.”

“Are you a cop?”

“No.”

“You’re a private investigator.”

“No.”

“I don’t like this. You’re coming with me and we’re going to call the cops. They can figure out what you’re doing here.”

“What are you going to tell them about what you were doing here?” she asked. “You were on your way home when your father and I saw you. Why did you come back?” She studied his face. He had a very slight twitch in his left eye, on the bottom. It must be irritating, thought Sunny, wondering if it did that all the time, or just when he was nervous, like now.

He said, “I needed to check a few things.”

“Such as?”

“I can’t imagine why that would be any of your business. Why were you talking to my father?”

“I told you. I’m looking into the murder on behalf of a friend. I wanted to see if your father could tell me anything.”

“Like what?”

“Like why the Campaglias and the Beronis hate each other.” She watched him. His eyelid quivered with a tiny spasm. He looked angry. “I’m a friend of your brother’s girlfriend, Rivka. She works for me at Wildside.”

“Wildside is your place?”

“Yes.”

“You’re Sunny?”

“Yes.”

“Listen, Sonya Sunny McCoskey, you shouldn’t run around out here with a murderer on the loose. You never know who you’ll run into.”

“Then you don’t think he did it, either?”

“Who?”

“Wade Skord. They arrested him for murder earlier today.”

She couldn’t read his expression. It seemed as if he hadn’t heard about the arrest, but beyond that she couldn’t tell what he was thinking. She took a deep breath. “Would you be willing to meet me for coffee tomorrow? There are some things, small things, that I’d like to ask you about, but this doesn’t seem like the best place.”

“Like what?”

“Just a few questions. It’ll only take a couple of minutes.”

He stared at her. “I’m heading out early in the morning. I’ll be gone by seven. If you want to come by the house before then, go ahead. I don’t know what you think I’m going to tell you, especially since I don’t know a damn thing about Jack Beroni’s murder, but you’re welcome to waste your time asking if you want.” He looked down, then back at her face. “You’re bleeding.”

So she was. A spray of tiny droplets and one larger splash marked the floor of the gazebo. She held up her left hand, where there looked to be a fairly deep gash at the base of her palm.

“What happened to you?”

“I stumbled. It’s no big deal.”

“Let’s hope they don’t come back for more DNA samples,” he
said, giving her a look that might have been malicious or merely teasing.

Sunny put her hand lightly against her right arm to stop the bleeding.

“I have a hunch you already know where I live,” he said.

“I think so. Further down the road after your dad’s place.”

Gabe turned away and walked back up toward the winery. Sunny’s heart beat in her ears and throbbed in her hand. She felt the night getting cold. She waited until she heard him drive off, then walked quickly up to the driveway and jogged down it to the main road, then down the road to the turnoff that led to Wade’s place. Gabe’s sudden appearance had made her skittish, so when Farber yowled at her she started with a jerk, every muscle tense. Feeling foolish, but unwilling to stop herself, she checked the back of the truck for boogeymen and even lifted up the tarp folded in the corner before she got in and drove home.

In the house, she went straight to the bathroom, where she poured hydrogen peroxide on her hands and on the two-inch scrape she’d discovered on her upper arm and watched them bubble, then she covered them with bandages. At last she crawled into bed, bruised and exhausted. Thoughts flickered through her mind as she quickly fell into a deep sleep. Poor Farber alone up on the hill with the coyotes howling. Wade lying on a hard bed in a jail cell, trying to stay warm under a thin wool blanket. Jack Beroni’s body laid out on an icy table in the darkness of the basement morgue in Santa Rosa. And somewhere nearby, maybe even in a home where she had eaten dinner and opened bottles of wine, the murderer was warm in bed.