Blood Vines Read online

  “My God.” She sat back on her heels. “Doesn’t mean it’s Dylan Sommer.”

  “True. But we’ve got a male infant buried in a wine crate on land not far from the family’s winery.”

  She drew her eyebrows together. “The parents weren’t suspects?”

  “No. Among other things, they had an airtight alibi.”

  “Which was?”

  “They were having dinner with their best friends. My parents.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Friday, February 12

  1:20 P.M.

  Reed’s stomach rumbled loudly. Beside him Tanner sympathized. There’d be no chance to eat for a while as this party was now in full swing, complete with contingents from VCI and CSI, the Coroner’s Office, as well as both units’ sergeants.

  He and Tanner had conferred with their sergeants, who’d felt comfortable enough with their handle on the case to leave them to it. No doubt, they were on their way to lunch, Reed thought. Lucky bastards.

  Tanner’s CSI cohort, Detective “California” Cal Calhoon, chose that moment to arrive. He looked as if he’d just stepped out of a GQ spread-except for the Hazmat booties he wore over his shoes.

  Shit. Reed thought. Bye-bye five bucks.

  Calhoon stopped beside Reed, and looked up at him. At six foot four, Reed towered over the flashy detective. “Who’s the kid?” Cal asked, motioning toward the anthropologist crouched by the grave.

  “Pete Robb, PhD.”

  Cal smiled, revealing perfectly aligned, bright white teeth. “Anybody but me think that anthropologist is too young to know his butt from that hole in the ground?”

  “He’s a pain in my butt,” Reed said, “I’ll give you that. He finally shows up, then asks us to stand around while he ‘assesses the find.’ ”

  “Give the kid a break,” Tanner said. “We all started at the same place-wet behind the ears, over eager, do-gooders.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Reed muttered. “Time’s up.”

  Cal and Tanner fell in step with Reed. The anthropologist didn’t even look up when they reached him.

  “Before I mummify,” Reed said, “you have any thoughts?”

  “Actually, a classic example of saponification,” the PhD corrected. “You’ve heard of the process?”

  Oh yeah, Reed thought. Really young. “That’s a mighty big word, Doc. Maybe you want to break it down for us?”

  Cal grinned and Tanner shot Reed an amused glance. The anthropologist seemed oblivious. “It’s a process aided by moisture, wherein the body’s fat is turned to a soaplike substance called adipocere.”

  “Grave wax,” Tanner said innocently. “Right?”

  “Exactly!” Robb beamed up at her, the way a professor would his prize student. “It’s great stuff. Really interesting. It can run the gamut from soft and soapy to hard, brittle and waxy. Like this one.”

  Reed gave the kid points for enthusiasm-and Tanner props for calling it.

  “Under the right conditions-moisture, lack of oxygen, alkaline soil-fat turns to adipocere. Infants are a large percentage fat. They also lack certain digestive tract enzymes, a fact which aids adipocere production.”

  “Yet the hands and feet skeletonized,” Cal said. “How’d that happen?”

  “No fat, no adipocere.”

  “How old was he?” Reed asked. “Best guess anyway.”

  “Younger than two.” The kid nudged his glasses higher on his nose. “The skull hadn’t knitted together yet. Obviously, this child was considerably younger than that.”

  “Six or seven months old?” Reed asked.

  “Maybe. I’ll take long bone measurements back at the lab, that’ll narrow it down.”

  “How long’s he been buried?” Tanner asked.

  “Years, judging by the decomposition of the crate. At least two.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “In conditions like these, adipocere begins forming a month or two after death and reaches completion within two years.”

  “Could he have been buried twenty-five years?” Reed asked.

  “Maybe, sure.”

  Reed turned to Cal and Tanner. “I want to find out if that particular pacifier is still being made, and if it’s not, when production stopped.”

  “I’ll do the same with the diaper,” Cal offered. “Nasty as it looks, the lab might be able to do something with it through material and design comparisons. Plus, the crate may be marked.”

  Tanner looked at Reed. “The lab may be able to extract some DNA from the bones. The adipocere might also be a source.”

  “Ditto the pacifier,” Cal added.

  “What’s your next move?” Tanner asked.

  “I have a pretty good idea who this land belongs to. I’ll confirm and follow up.”

  “Sommer?”

  Reed nodded and glanced at his watch. “Even if the land’s not his, I’ll need to talk to him.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said simply, no doubt understanding how difficult that meeting would be for him, because of his personal history with the family.

  “Me, too. Call me when you and Cal finish processing and are back at the Barn,” he said, referring to HQ by its nickname. “We’ll rendezvous then.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Friday, February 12

  4:10 P.M.

  Reed navigated the steep, winding road that led to the Sommer Winery from memory. He had traveled it hundreds of times, many of them much faster and more carelessly than now. How many of those times had he been under the influence? And not just the influence of drugs or alcohol-but of youth, machismo and his overinflated opinion of himself and his place in the world.

  Reed smiled grimly. He barely recognized that person anymore.

  He eased off the gas, thoughts turning to the task ahead. He’d skimmed the case files, reviewed statements from Sommer family members and friends and read the various accounts of the events of that day twenty-five years ago.

  Some moments, however, had such impact they lingered in the memory, clear as the day they occurred. The morning he’d awakened to learn Dylan Sommer had been kidnapped was one of them.

  August 17: a Saturday. He’d been ten, had awakened to sunlight streaming through the open windows. The sky had been a perfect robin’s egg blue and the breeze wafting through the open window sweet.

  And carried on the breeze, the sound of his mother crying.

  He’d gone to investigate. And found the adults whispering among themselves, their expressions twisted with something he hadn’t recognized. Not then, anyway. Now he would: Grief. Disbelief. Fear.

  The police had arrived shortly after, then the FBI. He had eavesdropped-and learned about Dylan’s disappearance, the discovery of blood near the Sommer Winery’s caves, about the expectation of a ransom demand.

  A demand that never came.

  Life had changed after that day. His parents had begun to turn old. They fought more, smiled less. Their relationship with their friends-particularly the Sommers-had become strained as well. Life had lost its carelessness, certainly its simplicity. Doors were locked. Alarm systems installed. No more night games of hide-and-seek while their parents drank wine and lost themselves in adult conversations.

  As a kid, he hadn’t understood why. As an adult, he did. How did you bounce back from something like that? How did you manage to move on?

  Harlan and Patsy Sommer hadn’t. Their marriage had fallen apart. Patsy had left, taking her daughter, Alexandra, leaving behind not only Harlan and his daughter, but their friends and the life they had made together.

  The house and winery came into view. Both rambled, modernized and expanded here and there over the years. And like many homes in the area, what made it spectacular was the location-two thousand feet above the valley, nestled among the bay, oak and eucalyptus trees. The view was breathtaking-vineyards sloping down the mountain, each elevation its own microclimate, perfect for producing a uniquely flavored grape.

  Heaven on earth.

  R
eed parked his vehicle, climbed out, then started for the winery. Harlan Sommer was a good guy; Reed had always liked him. He hated that he had to be the one to open this old wound, but the job was his.

  A man and woman emerged from the tasting room. “I’m sorry,” the woman called, “the winery’s closed.”

  Rachel Sommer, he recognized. Harlan’s daughter. “Rachel, it’s Dan Reed.”

  “Danny?” She broke into a smile and hurried to meet him. “I haven’t seen you in ages.”

  He kissed her cheek. “You look wonderful.”

  She did. Tawny, shoulder-length hair, soft brown eyes, chamois-colored buckskin coat and boots. Five years his senior, he’d had a major crush on her when he was thirteen. To her credit, she had been kind.

  “And you’re as big and handsome as ever. Still not hitched?”

  “You going to make me an offer?”

  “I just might.” She hugged him again, then turned toward her companion. “This is Ron Bell, our assistant winemaker. Ron, Dan and I practically grew up together.”

  “Practically?” He shook the other man’s hand. “I think I spent more time here than home.”

  “Our parents were best friends,” she said by way of explanation. “Dan’s family owns Red Crest Winery.”

  “Good wines,” the other man said. “Your ’05 cab franc was excellent. Didn’t it win the San Francisco Chronicle’s competition?”

  “Yes, thank you. A gold. But it wasn’t mine. My father and brothers’.”

  Rachel tucked her arm through Dan’s. “Dan left the wine biz behind for the law.”

  “You’re an attorney?”

  “Cop,” he answered, his lips lifting at the man’s shocked expression.

  “A rebel,” Rachel said. “That’s what he is.”

  They started for the house. “Dad’s testing one of the ’08 cabs. Come have a taste. He’ll be delighted to see you.”

  “I’m not so sure of that. This isn’t a social call. It’s about Dylan.”

  She stopped short. She looked as if he had slapped her. “My God, Dan. You can’t be-”

  The last was cut off by Harlan Sommer calling out to her, “Rachel, who’s that with you?”

  “Little Danny-”

  “Reed,” Harlan finished, a smile stretching across his face. He strode toward them. “Good to see you, son.” He reached him and clapped him on the back. “It’s been too damn long.”

  Since Reed had last seen him, the man’s hair had gone completely gray. And he looked thinner, more frail than he remembered. “It has. How have you been?”

  “Wonderful. Just great. Treven and Clark are here. Come say hello.”

  “Dad, wait.” Rachel touched his arm. “Dan’s visit isn’t social.” She lowered her voice. “Something about Dylan.”

  Harlan stopped cold. “I see,” he said stiffly, and turned to Ron. “Could you let my brother and nephew know I’ll be a few minutes. They needn’t wait.”

  Ron moved his gaze between them, then nodded and headed into the house.

  “We’ve uncovered the remains of an infant,” Reed began. “A boy.”

  “Where?” the man managed, voice thick.

  “In one of your vineyards. The one with the phylloxera infestation.”

  Rachel brought a hand to her mouth. “The ancient vines. My God, that’s just down the hill.”

  Harlan began to tremble. Rachel put her arm around him.

  “We don’t know if it’s Dylan,” Reed added. “The age appears to be right, and the fact the child was buried in a wine crate, in a location so close to-”

  “I need to sit down.”

  Without waiting for a response, Harlan crossed to a group of benches clustered together near an outdoor brick oven. He sank heavily onto one. Rachel sat beside him and gathered his hand in hers.

  Reed took the bench kitty-corner to theirs. “I need to ask you a few questions, Harlan.” The man nodded and Reed continued. “Did Dylan use a pacifier?”

  “Yes,” he managed.

  “Can you describe it to me?”

  He shook his head. “It was blue. That’s all I remember.” He looked at his daughter. “After all this time. Can it be?”

  “Do you remember, did he go to bed with it that night?”

  “He always went to bed with it,” Rachel answered for her father, voice strong, almost angry-sounding.

  “Do you recall, was it missing the morning you discovered Dylan gone?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t-” He rubbed his head, voice shaking. “It never crossed my mind.”

  “The infant we unearthed was buried with one. It was blue.”

  A sound passed the man’s lips, low and feral, like an animal in pain. Rachel put her arms around him, rested her head on his shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Dad.”

  “I always hoped he was alive,” he whispered. “Foolishly. It… helped me, it…” His words trailed off.

  “We don’t know for certain it’s Dylan,” Reed said softly. “The remains are surprisingly intact. Disturbingly so.”

  “I don’t understand,” Rachel said. “It’s been twenty-five years… I was fifteen years old, for God’s sake! What could be left?”

  Reed quickly, and as gently as possible, explained the saponification process. “What’s left is a mummy. I’m sorry.”

  Harlan said nothing, though he saw that his throat worked. Reed went on. “Was Dylan still in diapers?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me about that night.”

  He clasped his hands together. “We went to dinner at your parents’. We drank too much wine. In those days we… we used to do that.” He lowered his gaze. “She never forgave me… Leaving the children alone was my idea. I promised her they’d be fine.”

  “I was fifteen,” Rachel said, voice shaking. “Old enough to babysit. If anyone was to blame, it should have been me.”

  “No,” Harlan said. “I just thank God you were… if anything had happened to you… I don’t think I could have gone on.”

  Reed turned to her. “If I remember correctly, Rachel, you and your stepsister slept through whatever happened.”

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  Harlan stepped in. “The police believed whoever took Dylan knew the children were alone. Knew the layout of the home, which bedroom was Dylan’s. The FBI supported that theory. They were convinced it was a kidnapping for ransom.”

  “But no ransom demand came in.”

  “No.”

  Something had gone wrong. Perhaps. Or they had lost their nerve, killed and buried Dylan, then run.

  He didn’t share his train of thoughts with Harlan and his daughter.

  Harlan shook his head. “We never thought something like that could happen here… not in Sonoma. We never even locked our doors…”

  His words trailed off; Rachel stepped in. “When will we know if it’s Dylan?”

  “We’re attempting to pinpoint the child’s age, also to determine how long he’s been buried. In addition, we may be able to retrieve DNA from the remains and positively ID him that way. If that doesn’t pan out, we could turn to a forensic sculptor.”

  “Whatever it takes,” Harlan said. “I’ll pay. I have to know if it’s Dylan.”

  “I’ll need to speak with your ex-wife.”

  “I don’t know where she is.” At Reed’s disbelieving expression, he shrugged. “I haven’t spoken to her since she left. The loss of Dylan… she couldn’t handle it.”

  Treven emerged from the house. The elder Sommer carried a bottle and two wineglasses. The man reached them, greeted Reed, then poured a glass of wine and handed it to his brother. “What’s going on, Harlan?”

  “It’s Dylan.” He struggled to clear his throat. “They may have found his remains.”

  “Good God. Where?”

  Reed went through the story again. When he’d finished, Treven asked, “What do you know so far?”

  The older brother’s style was far different from the younger’s. Busine
sslike. To the point. He wanted the facts.

  Of course, it hadn’t been his child who had been abducted and possibly killed.

  “The remains suggest death by blunt force trauma to the head. He was buried in a wine crate, wearing a disposable diaper and wrapped in a blanket. His pacifier was buried with him.”

  Harlan’s shoulders shook as he began to cry. Treven squatted in front of him. “This is good news, Harlan. All these years without knowing. Without justice. Surely this will reopen the investigation.” He glanced up at Reed for confirmation. Reed gave it to him and he continued. “Think about it, justice for Dylan, at long last. A proper burial for his remains.”

  “When will we know?” Harlan asked.

  “We’ll move as quickly as we can,” Reed assured him. “We’re in the process now of excavating the remains and will transport them to the lab. I’ll keep you informed.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  San Francisco, California

  Monday, February 15

  2:20 P.M.

  Alex parked in front of her mother’s Victorian row house, one of San Francisco’s famed “painted ladies.” She hadn’t appreciated growing up here until after she was grown. Typical kid, she supposed. Longing for what she didn’t have instead of enjoying what she did.

  Alex set the emergency brake and climbed out of her Toyota Prius. She had spent the past six days searching for the source of her “vision,” as she had come to refer to it. So far, she’d come up empty.

  She re-cinched her caramel-colored trench and started up the walk. Although frustrated, she had gradually become less troubled over the incident. She’d told herself it’d been a onetime thing, an aberration of sorts. Certainly nothing to get worked up about.

  Alex scooped up her mother’s newspaper, then let herself into the home. The smell of oil paints and turpentine stung her nose. Her mother had been working.

  “Mom,” she called, “it’s Alex.”

  “On the porch, honey.”

  Alex made her way down the central hallway. The living room and dining room were both a wreck. Furniture pushed to the walls; floors covered by drop cloths; easels with works in progress; canvases propped against every available surface.