2 Crushed (15 page)

“I know what his next move
is—to take my son out of the country! You have to stop him.”

“Ma’am, we’re doing all we can.” He
glanced toward Adam. “From what you told us about last night, it sounds as
though Mr. Salvatore doesn’t yet have possession of his son—that he was
meeting Sean Parker to make an exchange. Which means, if he does manage to
leave the country, it will most likely be without Davy.” He held Margaret’s
teary gaze. “I think we need to focus more on your father, Miss Parker. He
knows this area well, and where he might hide a young child.”

Margaret felt Billie tense up
beside her. The conversation had to bring up horrible memories of one summer of
her childhood that she’d rather forget. She reached down and clasped the hand
of her friend. “He does. In fact he left a note for Handel last night in the
olive grove at the end of the vineyard.”

“Why wasn’t this reported
immediately? I just spoke with your brother early this morning.”

Billie and Adam looked surprised as
well.

“I don’t know. So much has
happened, Handel must have forgotten to mention it.” She bit her bottom lip and
hoped he arrived soon.

“What did the note say?” Officer
Tate asked, pulling out his little notebook.

“It said Davy would be returned
when Handel gave my father what he wanted.”

“Money?”

“He called Handel days ago and
asked for ten thousand dollars. Before Davy disappeared.”

“The note wasn’t specific?” He
glanced up, his pen still against the page.

“It was written for Handel. He
didn’t explain it.”

When Handel finally got there, they
were all waiting a bit impatiently. “Officers,” he greeted, glancing around the
room. “Did I miss something?”

“I told them about the note.”

“The note?”

“The ransom note you neglected to
mention,” the big officer explained, a suspicious frown forming between his
brows. “Didn’t you think that was an important piece of information in finding
your nephew?”

Handel cleared his throat. “I think
we all know that my father is doing this for money. He asked both of us,” he
gestured toward Margaret, “for money this past week. When we turned him down he
went to Salvatore. Salvatore already had an agenda, so he took the bait. The
note my father left for me was more of a kick in the ribs than any real ransom
note. He wants me to know that he’s still in control.”

“Mr. Parker, we’re in control. I
need that note,” Officer Tate said firmly.

“I’ll get it for you. It’s in my
car.”

*****

When the officers had finished
grilling Handel, they left, with a promise to report back if Salvatore was
picked up or if any leads cropped up from the search of his suite.

Handel took Margaret aside into the
tasting room. The tables were empty, no white cloths or crystal. Everything had
been put away until harvest was through. It seemed bare and lonely, the black
and white photographs hanging along one wall, a simple reminder of how time
changed everything. “Why did you bring up the note?” he asked.

“Why wouldn’t I? Davy has been
kidnapped. The police need to have all the pieces to solve the puzzle. Don’t
you think that’s important?” She glared at him. “What are you trying to hide?
You still didn’t explain the note. I have a right to know! What other items did
he want you to bring besides money? And why are you trying so hard to make it
seem inconsequential?” She didn’t bother to lower her voice and knew that Adam
and Billie could probably hear them in the other room.

Handel expelled loudly. “Why can’t
you trust me? I’m not Salvatore. I’m your brother. I’ve watched out for you and
Davy all these years. Do you think I’m plotting against you now?”

“I just want him back,” she
whispered, tears pooling in her eyes. “Can’t you see I’m broken? Trust has
nothing to do with this. It’s about finding Davy, and you aren’t helping by
hiding information.”

“I’m sorry.” He rubbed a hand over
his face in that slow way he had when he was thinking. “I should have told
you.”

“Told me
what
?”

He glanced toward the doorway. “He
wanted the pictures.”

“Pictures?”

“The pictures of his victims. The
Polaroids that Billie has. Pictures of the children he molested,” he said, his
voice sharp with disgust. “He said they belong to him. And I don’t think he
meant the photos—but the girls. Like he owned their souls. I couldn’t do
that to Billie.”

The thought of what her father was
capable of made her nauseous. She focused on breathing until the feeling
passed. She asked, “How can she still be in possession of the pictures? I
thought you handed them over to the police when he was arrested last time.”

“No. Sam Harper was the only
officer that knew she had them. When he died last year, that information went
with him. Billie didn’t think it was fair to the other girls to hand over their
photos without asking them first. She’s been trying to contact each one as she
finds out who they are. Unless they’ve been repressing their memories as well,
the statute of limitations is up for them to bring a case to court anyway.” He
sighed. “Billie’s testimony put him back behind bars. She thought it was enough
to keep him there.”

“It should have been enough to keep
him there,” Billie said, stepping through the doorway. She’d obviously been
listening, her lips pressed in a hard line. “Your father has caused only pain
his entire life. Isn’t it about time we put a stop to it?”

He looked away. “What can we do,
short of killing him?”

Margaret saw weariness around her
brother’s eyes and mouth that weren’t there before, even when he worked
outrageous hours during important court cases. She realized he hurt as much as
she did. He was just better at holding it in, trying to be strong for both of them,
but the shell was beginning to crack.

“We can give him the pictures in
exchange for Davy, and let the police arrest him.” Billie’s hands were clenched
into fists at her sides. “Those girls would not want another child to suffer if
there was something they could do about it. Believe me, I know.”

“I know you do, Billie. Thank you.”
Margaret went and hugged her tight. Billie remained stoic and stiff, before
finally melting into her embrace, a lone tear sliding down her cheek and onto
Margaret’s shoulder. Margaret looked up and found Adam watching from the
doorway, his eyes resting on her warmly.

“That’s all well and good, if the
police don’t screw up again,” Handel said. “But who’s to say it will work out
the way it’s supposed to?”

Billie wiped her eyes and pulled
away. “It doesn’t matter. As long as we get Davy back, it will be worth it.”

“Where are you supposed to bring
them, Handel?” Margaret asked.

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know?
He said in the note…”

He threw up his hands. “I know what
he wrote, but I’m telling you that I don’t know what he meant. I’ve gone round
and round it in my head. Cut corners and skip steps! What does that even mean?
Maybe he was messing with me again, seeing if I’d report it to the
police—I don’t know.”

“You know him better than anybody
else here,” Billie said, moving toward him. She took his hands and looked into
his face. “Think. Where is he the most comfortable? Where would he feel safe?”
Her eyes widened. “Where did you cut corners and skip steps?”

“The woodworking shed. He slept
there, worked there,” he paused, “took most of the girls there.”

Adam shook his head. “We searched
all of the buildings. It didn’t look like anybody had been in that building for
months.”

“The equipment is still there and
once in a while somebody uses it to fix something around here, but mostly it’s
just used for storage now,” Billie confirmed.

“That doesn’t mean my father
wouldn’t go back there. I think we should try it.” Margaret bit her lip and
waited, hoping they would agree.

Handel stared at her for a long
moment and then nodded. “We don’t have any other choice. If Billie is willing
to release the pictures, then we have to try. I’ll leave them there this
evening after everyone goes home.”

“What about the police?” Margaret
asked. “We have to let them in on it. We can’t do it alone. They have the man
power to set a wide enough net to catch him.”

“I’ll talk to them. They already
think I’m withholding information, so this should come as no surprise to them,”
he said, his voice caustic.

“I’m coming with you.” Billie
followed him to the door. At his look of surprise, she smiled and took his
hand. “It’s not your job to explain why I kept the photographs in my
possession. I should do that myself.”

“Good luck,” Adam said.

“I don’t believe in luck anymore,
little brother. Try a prayer. It’ll go a lot farther.”

CHAPTER
FOURTEEN

Adam maneuvered the forklift under
the grape bin and backed up, slowly turned and moved toward the sorter. Leo
stood at the top waiting. He wiped his forehead with the back of his shirt
sleeve and grinned, yelled something to one of the other men working the belt.
Adam tipped the load, letting it pour in.

He backed up the forklift, spun it
around and set the empty bin back on the trailer. Loren waved from the seat of
the tractor and moved out, the trailer of empty bins following along behind.
Adam parked the forklift off to the side of the yard, out of the way of
incoming traffic and hopped down.

Nearly all the grapes had been brought
in, except for Margaret’s field. Loren was going out to bring in the rest of
what had been picked, and then the crew would come in for lunch. He looked up
at the sky from under the bill of his cap. The sun was nearly straight up. It
had already been a long day and it was only noon. He couldn’t remember the last
time he was so tired. He blew out a weary sigh, pulled his cap off, scratched
his head and slapped it back on again. He was beginning to think accounting
might just be his dream job after all.

“Hey, Adam!” called one of the
women working the belt. “Come’re!”

The twenty-something Mexican girl
had been flirting outrageously with him every time he was within smiling
distance. He thought her name was Juanita, but he wasn’t sure. She stood on the
other side of the belt picking through the grapes that came down the line,
throwing out any leaves, debris, or bad fruit that got left from the sorter.
All the castoff was thrown into the large bin by the wall.

“What’s up?” he asked, approaching
the belt.

The girl gestured with her head
toward the nearly full bin. “Could you bring the forklift around the building
and take that away? The flies are driving me crazy!”

“Sure. I’ll ask Billie where she
wants me to dump it.”

“Gracias.” She wrinkled her nose.
“I hate flies. They remind me of death. I had a pet lamb when I was a girl. A
wild dog came during the night and ripped a hole in its side. In the morning,
maggots were in the wound, and then flies were everywhere. It was horrible. My
father had to shoot it.” She shook her head, black shoulder-length hair swaying
with the motion. “Flies disgust me!”

Adam stared at the girl, his mind
locked on her first words.
I hate flies.
They remind me of death.
She smiled seductively and batted her eyelashes as
though they had a serious connection. He peered over her shoulder, his gaze
moving to the bin six feet behind her. Sure enough, a cloud of flies hovered,
darted, landed and dove into the cast off fruit. He swallowed hard, remembering
what Margaret had said just days ago, “We’ll never be free of him until he’s
dead.” Had she gotten her wish? If so, where was Davy in all of this?

Juanita’s flirty expression
disappeared. She was suddenly all business, her eyes on the belt and the fruit
coming down the line. She picked out a bad grape and piece of stem, tossing
them into the small bin at her feet. Adam turned around. Margaret was walking
toward them, her eyes narrowed with interest. She stopped to chat with one of
the other girls working the belt.

He hurried to her side and took her
arm, turning her the other direction. “Meg, I need to talk to you,” he said.

“Hold on. I haven’t spoken with
Juanita yet. Someone is not keeping their eyes on the belt. I can’t have bad
grapes making it through the line to the press.” She glanced toward the girl in
question, her lips thinning into a disapproving line. “Billie said she had
problems with her last year. She’s too busy flirting with the guys to take the
job seriously.”

“Really? I hadn’t noticed,” he
lied, trying once again to pull her away from the yard. He didn’t think
learning her father was buried in a bin of rotten fruit would be a highlight to
the day even if she did hate him. She certainly didn’t need to be here when
they found out for sure. “I’ll speak with her later, but I really need to talk
to you now.”

“All right. Talk.” She pulled away
from his grip and crossed her arms over her chest. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” he said, glancing toward
the bin. “It’s personal.”

She followed his gaze and
apparently thought he was staring at Juanita. Her eyes widened and she released
a sound of disgust. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

“No.” He put up his hands in
defense. “Not that kind of personal.”

She didn’t appear convinced.

“It’s about your father.”

“You know what? I’ve had enough
talk about my father.” She pushed past him and mad a beeline for Juanita.
“Right now I want to focus on work.”

He stayed back and watched her. She
said something to Juanita and gestured toward the opening where the grapes
entered the winery and were introduced into the press. The girl kept her eyes
down, focused on the job at hand, only glancing up and nodding once or twice
while Margaret berated her. When the girl inclined her head toward the bin and
said something with that
ick
look on
her face, Adam moved quickly forward.

“Juanita said you were going to
take care of the bin back there,” Margaret said, hands on her hips. “Why aren’t
you doing it?”

“I need to ask Billie where she
wants it dumped,” he said. “You want to come with me?”

She looked at him as though he’d
lost his mind. “Why don’t you just take it back there by the compost pile? You
don’t need to bother Billie with that.”

“Oh. Okay. I’ll do that.”

“Good.” She stared at him until he
turned and went back to the forklift.

He climbed in and started it,
jerked forward toward the parking area, forks lifted. He glanced back. She had
crawled under the belt and was standing on the other side now. The side where
the bin sat. He turned around in time to keep from running over Ernesto.
“Sorry!” he yelled, as the man jumped out of the way.

He drove the machine through the
gravel parking area, between the buildings and behind the winery. The rutted
road made the machine bump and jerk even more than usual. He whacked his head
on the roof a couple of times. He turned at the corner of the building, right
where the bin should be, and jerked to a stop, his foot hitting the brake with
enough force to eject him if he hadn’t been holding on tight.

A group of workers were huddled
around Margaret where she lay crumpled on the ground. Juanita squatted beside
her holding her wrist, as though checking for a pulse. Margaret’s eyes were
closed and she wasn’t moving.

Adam jumped from the forklift and
pushed through the onlookers. He dropped to his knees beside Margaret, lifted
her in his arms and made his way around the machinery to the front of the
building. Someone had already run to call for help. Sally met him at the door
of the winery.

“What happened?”

“I think she fainted.” He carried
her through the door, held open by Sally, and into the conference room. The
smell of stale coffee and new carpet pervaded the room. He hooked one of the
chairs with his foot and rolled it out from the table. He carefully settled her
in the chair and laid her head atop the table, gently patted her cheek.

“Here.” Sally held out a glass of
water.

“What do you want me to do with
that?” he asked, setting it on the table. “Poor it over her head? Unconscious
people can’t swallow.”

“You don’t have to bite Sally’s
head off. She’s just trying to help,” his sister said, rushing into the room
with Handel beside her.

“Sorry.”

“What happened?” Handel demanded.
“We pulled up and saw you carrying her.”

“Mmmmm,” Margaret stirred. Her eyes
opened and she slowly raised her head and looked around the room, confused.
Then something clicked and she screamed, “Davy! The bin. He’s in the bin!”

Adam shook his head. “No, that
can’t be. It’s not Davy. It can’t be Davy.”

“I saw him. The hat he wore.” She
broke down and wept, her head in her hands.

Adam looked at Billie, and shook
his head. “No.” He ran from the room and down the hall, shoved open the front
door and gasped for breath. He felt like the air had all been sucked from his
lungs, leaving nothing but emptiness and dread.

Two news vans were still parked in
the gravel lot, staying back from the wine-making operation, but close enough
to be on the spot if something went down. Like vultures they hovered, waiting
for the story to break so they could broadcast someone else’s pain on national
television and ask, “
How does it feel
?”
The sliding doors were open and the two cameramen were already grabbing their
gear. As if in a race, one reporter touched up her makeup and patted her hair
in place, looking in the side mirror, while the reporter from the competing
station shrugged into a suit coat and straightened his tie.

Adam hurried around the side of the
building and back to the work yard. Everyone had returned to their jobs as
though nothing happened, as though there were no body rotting in a bin of
rotten fruit. What was wrong with people?

Juanita glanced up from her work.
“Is Miss Parker all right?” she asked.

“How can you ask that? Of course
she’s not all right. She just saw…” he broke off and looked around the yard at
the curious faces staring back. Not one looked as though they’d seen a dead
body, especially not the body of a little boy they’d all been searching for,
for the last two days.

“What did she see?”

He crawled under the belt and went
to the bin. Waved the flies away and looked inside. Part of a baseball cap
stuck up through smashed grapes and litter, the bill turned purple with juice
but the logo still readable.
Golden Gate
Racetrack

He heard a commotion and looked up.
The reporters, cameramen in tow, approached the yard looking for the story. He
jumped in the forklift and started the engine. The machine roared to life and
he dropped the fork, moved forward to position them under the bin and brought
up the lever to lift. The news people could obviously smell a story. They
headed his way, cameras rolling, microphones out.

He heard a crash and turned around.
In his rush to get away, he hadn’t positioned the bin solidly on the forks. The
box had tipped and everything came pouring out. Including the body of Agosto
Salvatore.

*****

 
The police cordoned off the yard, now a
crime scene, thoroughly shutting down the winemaking operation for the day.
Statements were taken, endless questions were asked, and finally the workers
were told to go home. The reporters were pushed back to the parking area, but
they’d already gotten the sensational story they hoped for. A dead body
fermenting in a bin of rotten grapes was titillating news in wine country.
Competition was fierce with wine growers, but murder took it to a whole new
level. The fact that Agosto Salvatore had nothing to do with Fredrickson Winery
didn’t really matter. He died there during harvest and Fredrickson’s was
struggling financially. They mentioned the kidnapping as though perhaps it were
all part of a diabolical plan to extort money from Salvatore to keep the winery
up and running.

The officers they spoke with before
were low men on the totem pole now. Two detectives from homicide showed up to
take over the case. Adam was taken downtown and questioned repeatedly. After
all, he did find the body and reported a gunshot the night before that no one
else seemed to have heard. He thought they must be taking their cues from the
six o’clock news rather than reality.

“I already told the other officers.
I don’t know how he got there. It was dark last night. I wasn’t close enough to
see anything. I showed Officer Tate some marks on the ground. I thought they
looked like something had been dragged across the yard toward the bin, but he
didn’t think it was important.” He threw up his hands. “Why aren’t you out
looking for Sean Parker? He’s the child molester, kidnapper, and now murderer.”

Detective Olson tapped the table
with his index finger. “Why did you run out there to move the bin when Miss
Parker said she thought her son was in there? Sounds like guilt to me.”

“You’ve got to kidding!”

“We don’t kid about murder, Mr.
Fredrickson.”

With elbows propped on the
interrogation room table, he dropped his head in hands and repeated once again,
“I saw the reporters running to get a story. I couldn’t let Margaret suffer
more. If Davy really was in that bin, I had to move it. She wouldn’t want
people staring at her little boy—like that. Taking pictures, video. So I
tried to move the bin, but I screwed up.”

“Did you screw up, Mr.
Fredrickson?” The detective raised one brow. “Or did you dump it on purpose to
taint the evidence?”

He groaned. “You’ve been watching
too many cop shows, detective. I was just trying to save my friend a little
heartache.”

“Well, it seems someone did that by
killing the father of her son, who coincidentally just happened to have a pack
of lawyers working on paternity and custody claims on his behalf.”

He remained silent, refusing to dig
himself in further by arguing the validity of such claims on the part of Agosto
Salvatore. The man was dead and someone shot him. The police didn’t care at
this point whether he was worthy of a place on the FBI’s most wanted list, or a
potential recipient of the father of the year award, they just wanted to nail
someone for his murder so they could check the box on their
paperwork–case closed.

“You can go now,” the detective
said, moving away from the table. He pulled open the door and stood there,
waiting.

Adam narrowed his gaze. “That’s
it?”