“Is that a shipping container?” Adele asked, her eyes fixed on the red metal fixture in the middle of the dusty ground.
The local nodded, lifting yellow caution tape and allowing the two agents to pass under. Another two cops were standing by the container, notepads in hands, muttering quietly to each other.
John took in the scene. He glanced down the road toward the vineyard in the distance, and then along the side of the shipping container, toward a pile of discarded wooden crates
“Why is there a shipping container out here in the middle of nowhere?” Adele asked.
The local glanced at the agent and said, “Storage. For excess packaged products. Shipping containers are easy to cool quickly, and are relatively secure. Plus they’re a tenth of the price of building an actual structure.” He shrugged. “I know a few farmers in the area who use these things as temporary layovers.”
Adele wrinkled her nose. “And this container, whose land is it on?”
The local shook his head. “Still trying to figure that out. Seems that it is within the boundary of the vineyard where the victim worked.”
Adele stepped toward the open door of the shipping container. John followed.
The body had been removed at this point. But John had seen the crime scene photos on the flight, and he could block out the setting in his mind. He spotted dark splotches against the metallic ground. The back wall of the small enclosure still showed signs of blood spray.
“Find anything useful?” he asked, glancing back.
The local winced and shook his head. “Still going over it, but doesn’t seem to be any fingerprints. The blood belongs to the victim. We’ll have more tests, and maybe we’ll get lucky.” By the tone of his voice, it seemed like he wasn’t counting on it.
John nodded and the local officer walked out of the shipping container, leaving the two agents to stand in the cool metal enclosure, scanning the small space.
Adele’s eyes were half hooded, and she seemed to be staring off into the distance for a moment as she peered down the long container. John watched her speculatively and then quietly said, “Is everything okay?”
She jolted, as if he’d stunned her. “Excuse me?”
John raised his hands, as if defending himself against the accusation of actually caring. “Just wondering if you’re doing okay. You look lost.”
Adele snorted and turned away, taking a few steps along the metal container. Boots clanged against the floor. She came to a stop in front of the angry red spots on the ground, staring down.
“Not much here,” she said.
John shook his head. “Doesn’t seem like it.”
“Any theories as to why he killed her?”
“No, you?”
Adele inhaled, her chest puffing, but then she breathed a deep sigh and shook her head. “The why only matters when it helps us catch them.”
She then turned, scanning the ceiling of the metal container. She paused for a moment, taking note of something. John followed her gaze. “Cobwebs,” he said. “Means the thing hasn’t really been used much.”
Adele shrugged one shoulder. “Maybe, or maybe our killer just didn’t care to clean it.”
Again, John found himself studying the side of his partner’s face. She seemed strained, stressed. “Have you been sleeping well?”
Now, she finally rounded fully on him, facing him and meeting his gaze directly. “I’m doing fine, John.”
John shrugged. “You don’t seem yourself is all. Are things okay with your dad? Have you managed to sort it out after—”
Adele cut him off curtly, her tone turning cold. “We’re taking a bit of a break from each other,” she said, making it clear she didn’t want to speak on it anymore.
John, though, considered social boundaries more like suggestions. He trampled over the suggestions with his next question. “You’re sure? You were really mad at him for a while. But he is your dad, and—”
She snorted again, rolling her eyes. “And what are you? Dr. Phil?”
John returned her look. “I have absolutely no clue who that is.”
Adele rolled her eyes and turned, marching out of the container and gesturing that he should follow. “There’s nothing here,” she said. “Let’s scan the surrounding area; maybe the killer got careless.”
John followed after her. Clearly, his questions had irritated her. Then again, perhaps she was simply displeased at the thought of combing through dirt and old boxes in search of a clue they both knew wouldn’t be there. The killer had proven one thing; he was methodical, careful. Yet, still, John supposed they had their due diligence. And if Adele was anything, it was diligent.
Together, Adele and John began circling around the shipping container, their feet scuffing in the dust, moving toward the stacks of crates. As they scanned the ground, Adele broke off a bit, moving in the opposite direction of her partner and circling the container the other way. “I’ll meet you on the other side,” she muttered. Her eyes were glued to the ground as she moved away from her partner, distancing herself, searching for clues in the dirt.
***
The search came up with nothing. No new clues. No new hunches. The two-mile drive to the vineyard where the sommelier had been abducted passed in silence. This time, John had the good sense to sit in the passenger seat behind the driver’s side. The local uniform pulled to a halt outside a couple of dumpsters, parking a few spaces away from the odoriferous trash cans.
Another cop was waiting for them at the door of the wine-tasting studio. John inhaled the air as he stepped out of the vehicle, and was confronted with equal parts day-old garbage, and the faint hint of a fruity scent on the air. Behind the main structure of the vineyard, he spotted the actual farm. Grapes and vines and rows of green and purple on wooden stands as far as the eye could see.
John whistled softly beneath his breath, and then moved toward the entrance to the studio by which the other police officer stood. The fellow unlocked the door and gestured for them to enter.
Adele and John moved into the wood and stone room beyond.
Above, crisscrossing oak beams and stone-veneer pillars provided a rustic feel to the vineyard. John and Adele moved toward a series of circular tables speckled with blue stone. An oak counter was to their right, and a pile of used glasses sat in a plastic tray on the counter.
Again, Adele distanced from him, immediately moving in the opposite direction of where he’d been heading.
John sighed to himself, but pushed back his irritation, circling around the nearest tables and scanning the chairs beneath the windows.
“Find anything here?” John asked the local.
But the cop just winced and shook his head. “Nothing came up yet. The owner of the vineyard should be in within the hour—he’s having to fly from Italy.”
John nodded to show he heard, then continued his trek, moving along the chairs and tables.
“Looks like everything was wiped down,” he said, directing his comment toward his partner’s small form outlined against the oak counter beyond. “Think it was the killer?”
Adele, finally speaking to him, but still refusing to meet his gaze, called out, “Might’ve just been from closing. Our killer isn’t stupid—methodical, careful. I doubt he would’ve left prints.”