John glanced back at the door and fixed his eyes on the police officer waiting for them. The local hesitated, interpreting John’s look, then stammered, “We’ll run for prints, of course. But it doesn’t seem likely.”
John shrugged a large shoulder. “Every little clue can help.”
Adele and John spent the next hour moving through the vineyard, searching various rooms and coolers, and the main office building. They even spent some time in the vineyard itself, moving amidst the plants and the dirt and the greenery. Nothing. No DNA, no usable fingerprints, no leads.
John and Adele moved back around the vineyard, finally within speaking distance once more. They paused in front of the array of windows facing into the studio, on the edge of the parking lot with the dumpsters. Adele put her hands on her hips and stared off across the fields, her eyes narrowed beneath sunlight. She said, “Our killer is careful. What are you thinking?”
John was glad she was talking to him again. “I think,” he said, hesitantly, “we have a young woman kidnapped from this area, moved two miles away, then killed. That’s a lot of effort. No sexual assault, no torture. Why not just kill her here? In order to kidnap her, with no witnesses, he had her on her own.”
Adele also paused, standing in front of the tall glass windows. She stood beneath a wood and stone buttress, her eyes flicking along the patio, toward the glass door, and scanning the tables through the windows. She looked back at him. “Think he was a customer? Maybe stayed late?”
“Possibly.”
“Maybe he showed up after hours?”
“Or he hid somewhere, waiting for her to close.”
“What do you think that means?”
John grunted. “He’s a devious bastard. But otherwise, I don’t know. It’s a strange case. Motive doesn’t seem to match the murder.”
Adele smoothed the front of her suit, pressing her hands against wafer-thin pinstripes stretching down the blue. She looked along the vineyard, toward the sun in the sky and blinked, wincing against the light.
She said, “I don’t think fingerprints will turn up anything. He’s careful. I think that’s why he moved the body.”
John nodded, inhaling the scent of too-sweet air. He glanced back toward the grapevines and then looked at Adele. “Still doesn’t explain why he sedated them before killing. Think he’s getting off on the death itself? The orgasmic rush of the light leaving their mortal eyes?” John said, quavering his voice dramatically.
Adele shivered. “Gross. But also, I don’t know. It’s possible.” She hesitated, then clicked her fingers. “Hang on… Maybe we’re looking at this wrong.”
She moved toward the door, pushed it open—a small bell jangled overhead—and she called in, “The cash register—is it empty?”
There was a pause, the sound of murmuring, then one of the police officers moved from within, called out, “Still locked. Nothing was stolen as far as we can tell. The vineyard owner should be here soon—he’ll give us a better idea.”
Adele leaned dejected against the door for a moment, one elbow braced against the glass. Slowly, she allowed the door to close and she stepped back out into the dusty ground with John. “Never mind. So he was here for the victims. Doesn’t make any sense.”
“Maybe he was after the wine? Stole something, but just hid it?”
“Maybe…” Adele said, doubtfully. “We can have the owner check to see if anything is missing. He’ll be able to tell us.”
“You don’t sound confident.”
Adele shrugged. She massaged the side of her face, rubbing a flat hand over one eye in a circular motion as if to soothe a headache. “I don’t know what to think just yet, John. The killer’s motives don’t make much sense. He killed them with as little pain as possible. The farmer it looks like he killed before he even woke up, as if he didn’t want to scare the man. How does that make sense?”
John rubbed a thumb against a forefinger, wiping something sticky from the vineyard off onto his pants. “Usually they get off on fear.”
Adele nodded, jamming her hands in her pockets, and then beginning to move back into the studio to wait for the arrival of the owner.
Another hour, more time wasted. Nothing to show for it. No fingerprints, no DNA, no evidence. The killer hadn’t left anything behind. Why was he killing his victims? Why did it seem humane, even? Like a gentle farmer putting down an animal with as little pain as possible. Did the killer think he was performing a kindness? If so, how? John swallowed against the dry air, and then, stowing his own thoughts, he followed after his partner into the studio. Perhaps the vineyard owner would have the answers they needed.
CHAPTER SEVEN
In Adele’s estimation, John had a way with words the same way a veterinarian had a way with suppositories—an intrusive, uncomfortable business that left everyone discomfited. She shot a glance toward where he stood ushering the vineyard owner into the small studio, greeting the man in French and gesturing toward the circular table around which they’d placed three chairs.
Adele had to emit a small huffing breath, steadying her nerves before adopting a pleasant expression and striding over from the oak counter to the circular table. She waited for John to usher the new arrivals to the table before saying, “Hello, are you Mr. Reber?”
A skinny, gray-haired fellow with more wrinkles than a shar-pei examined her from beneath wispy eyebrows like clouds. Next to him stood a middle-aged man and woman both dressed in neat polos and matching khakis as if they had color coordinated their outfits.
“I’m Mr. Reber,” said the old man. “And this is also Mr. Reber,” he said, with a flourish of his fingers toward the young man. The way the older fellow said it suggested he’d introduced their little family unit like this on more than one occasion and it gave him delight to do so.
Adele tried not to let her smile diminish in degree, but it was an effort in patience—a resource currently running on fumes.
“Good afternoon,” she said, nodding to both of them in turn. Keeping her tone polite, she said, “Which of you is the owner of this establishment?”
“Both of them, darling,” said the woman, stepping forward and seating herself in one of the chairs at the circular table. Agent Renee immediately fetched another two so they would have enough seats. The two local officers watched Adele’s momentary confusion from where they stood by the door, displaying mild amusement.
“I see,” Adele said. “You’re co-owners?”
The younger man helped his father ease into another chair, and the woman answered once more. “My husband and his father have co-owned the business for the last five years. I help with operations. A terrible mess all of this—we were ever so fond of… what was her name again? Ms. Gucci?”
“Gueyen,” said Adele, this time finding despite her best efforts, her smile had slipped.
“Yes, well,” said the woman, tapping perfectly manicured, rose-red nails against the smooth table beneath the window. “We do have business to continue—flew in from Italy. Rather taxing on our dear father,” she said, nodding toward the older man who had finally managed to sit in the cushioned chair, and was breathing heavily from the effort.