Sharpshooter (6 page)

Sunny sat quietly, watching him look out the window and study the assortment of pedestrians who ambled between the big silver trunks of the downtown elms.

“I’ve been in this business long enough to know that the truth is generally fairly obvious,” he said, turning back to face her. “The guy holding the gun is usually the guy who shot the gun. The guy lifting the stolen barbecue into the bed of his pickup truck is usually the guy who stole the barbecue.”

Sunny turned the ring on her car keys, considering the situation. Even though what he said made sense, it couldn’t be right. There was simply no way Wade Skord had shot Jack Beroni. But
she needed some more time and some evidence if she was going to convince Steve Harvey.

He read her thoughts. “Sometimes you think you know your friends, and then you find out that maybe you know a lot less about them than you thought you did. Happens to everybody.”

“What’s this about Wade threatening Jack?”

Steve consulted his notebook. “Several witnesses have corroborated the story that Wade Skord threatened Jack Beroni with physical injury up to and including death on several occasions, most notably September third at a meeting of the Northern California Vintners Association and Wine Auxiliary. And there’s a good deal more than that, Sunny. Skord has a long history—including a criminal history—of abuse and conflict with Jack Beroni.”

“That’s ridiculous. Wade never threatened to kill Jack Beroni.”

“Well, several witnesses of good standing in the community say he did.”

Steve finished his meal. He’s relaxed, thought Sunny with a sickening feeling in her stomach. He thinks he’s got his man. She said, “Did you find anything else at Beroni? Were there footprints, signs of a struggle, anything unusual?”

“Nothing. This was a classic medium-range hit by a trained sharpshooter. We are talking about somebody confident in their ability to hit a target from a good distance at night. Somebody who practiced that kind of marksmanship on a regular basis.” He watched her as his words sank in. “The shooter never even got near the target. Just stood in the woods, put the crosshairs on Beroni’s chest, and pulled the trigger.”

Sunny thought about it, imagining Wade possessed by a demon anger she’d never witnessed in him. She pictured him in
an angry conversation with Jack on the phone, maybe drinking. He stormed out of his house, hiked half a mile through the night to the base of Beroni Vineyards, stood at the edge of the woods, and raised the butt of his rifle to his shoulder, releasing the safety. He would steady it, peering through the scope. At first darkness and the shadowy forms of distant trees would fill the viewfinder, then he would find the white of the gazebo, the orange glow of a cigarette, and finally the white field of Jack Beroni’s shirtfront. He would hold the gun steady, exhale, correct his aim, and pull the trigger. She shook her head. “A sharpshooter would steal a gun and leave it behind. He certainly wouldn’t use his own traceable gun and take it home with him.”

“I agree that he would get rid of the gun.” He seemed to delight in letting her make Wade look guilty. She felt her face flush with anger. “So he might use his own. Sometimes people do stupid things when they’re upset. They get impulsive.”

He stood up and went to the counter, coming back with two orange sodas. He handed her one. “Let the professionals handle this, Sunny, okay? You’ve got two choices. Either your old friend is in big trouble, or else I’m wrong and the bad guy is still out there. Either way, you’re going to be a lot better off at home or taking care of business at Wildside. Poking around in a murder investigation, particularly a high-profile operation like this one, is certainly not going to help anybody. I’m getting plenty of pressure from high places, and the last thing I need is the local foodies running around stirring up trouble.”

They walked back toward the station past the emerald-green lawn of the park. The tension of their earlier discussion seemed to dissipate in the bright sun.

Sunny drank her soda. “So he died Thursday night around ten o’clock?”

“Thereabouts.”

“Shot just once?”

“Once pretty much did the trick,” said Steve.

“What was he doing down there, anyway?” asked Sunny.

“I’d like to know,” said Steve. “What makes a guy leave a fancy party where he’s having a nice time with his girlfriend just so he can drive home and go for a moon walk?”

“You got me,” said Sunny. One of Steve’s fellow officers crossed the sidewalk up ahead and glanced at them long enough to register the facts, then strode past into the station. “Is Wade going to be able to get out on bail?”

“Probably. We’ll find out Monday or Tuesday at the latest,” said Steve.

“Tuesday? Can’t they decide before then?”

“It’s up to the judge.” Sergeant Harvey hitched up his pants, retucked his shirt, and resettled his belt and holster for his return to duty. “I want you to stay out of this mess now, Sunny. A murder investigation is nothing to play around with. I’d be pleased as punch if you want to come down and have lunch with me for social reasons, but don’t go getting involved with what’s none of your business.”

Sunny gave him a submissive smile and turned back toward the main drag of town where she’d left the truck.

In the park beside the police station, the large white gazebo was still decorated with semicircles of red, white, and blue bunting for Labor Day. Her eyes sought the white stairs, half expecting to see blood pooled and dripping. Under a nearby tree, a couple of young guys in dirty jeans and flannel shirts were curled on their sides, sleeping. At the other end, a Mexican family had set up a picnic at the wooden table. She passed a series of tourist shops selling expensive Italian pottery, gourmet
ice cream, and coffee-table books full of glossy photographs of the wine country. At the corner, she passed a row of newspaper kiosks. The headline on the
St. Helena Star
caught her eye. SHARPSHOOTER WAITING IN THE WINGS, it shouted in thirty-six-point type. She bent down for a closer look, expecting the lead to describe the cold-blooded assassination of Jack Beroni. Instead she learned that the glassy-winged sharpshooter had moved one step closer to the valley.

Rivka’s blue beach cruiser
was chained to the Neighborhood Watch sign in front of Sunny’s house. Rivka was sitting on the front stoop in a pair of ratty jeans, eating a Popsicle. Her lips and tongue were stained an unnatural shade of pink.

“I was hoping you’d be back soon. I brought lunch.” She lifted up a shopping bag next to her.

“Thank God. I’m starved. I didn’t know you were coming over or I would have called before I left,” said Sunny.

“It was an impulse. Last night after I got home I started worrying. This morning I couldn’t reach you or Wade on the phone, so I thought I’d come over and put my mind at ease.”

Sunny watched her, waited for her to explain.

“The whole Jack Beroni thing. You and Wade seemed quiet last night. And then this morning when I called over there he wasn’t around, and then you weren’t around. And last night he said the cops had come by yesterday asking questions about the murder. Then I started thinking about how he’s always shooting his gun up there, and I started worrying that maybe the cops would wonder if that was a strange coincidence, especially with him living so nearby and being sort of, you know, unsociable.”
She looked up at Sunny’s face. “They arrested him, didn’t they?”

“This morning.” She sat down next to Rivka on the stoop. They stared at the jumble of lemon verbena, lavender, jasmine, and local weeds run amok in the front yard. A climbing rose covered in pale yellow blossoms grew thickly over the redwood archway facing the sidewalk.

“Your yard needs watering,” said Rivka. “Not to mention some pretty major weed-control action.”

“I’ll get right on that,” said Sunny. “Do I smell barbecue?”

“Yep. Rude Shelley’s.”

“Still warm?”

“Maybe.”

The phone was ringing when Sunny opened the door. She picked up the cordless and Monty Lenstrom said, “Sunny? What’s going on? Is Wade in jail?”

“Monty?”

“People at the shop are going around saying that Wade was arrested this morning for Jack Beroni’s murder. Is that true?”

“For the moment.”

“What do you mean, for the moment? Are you okay?”

“Me? I’m fine.”

“When did you find out?”

“A couple of hours ago.”

“Listen, Sunny, are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine. Wade’s the one in jail.”

“I know, but it must be a pretty big shock for you. You two are pretty close.”

“Monty, he didn’t do it.” Sunny made a face at Rivka, who was pulling white takeout cartons out of the bag and arranging them on the counter.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, absolutely sure.”

“He’s been violent in the past.”

“Jesus, Monty. Like when?”

“Like last year at the Meadowood Croquet Classic. One of the croquet pros was talking to Ellie and Wade just walked up, handed her his glass, and decked the guy. He almost lost a tooth.”

Sunny cradled the phone against her shoulder and took out plates and silverware while she talked. “That was totally different. That guy was a known weasel. That croquet pro was the one who was taking Ellie out to dinner at French Laundry all the time and sending her flowers the day after she and Wade separated. Anybody who will wine and dine a guy’s wife before they’ve decided whether or not to break up for sure deserves to be punched.”

“I don’t know, you weren’t there. Wade was out of control. He has a nasty temper, and he expresses his anger in physical ways.”

“Monty, what exactly do you want?”

“I just wanted to know if there’s anything I can do to help.”

“This is help? You’ll have a lynch mob after him by sunset.”

“All right, fine. I’m sorry. Just let me know if I can do anything.”

“Okay.”

“Talk to you.”

“Yeah.”

She hung up the phone with a look of disbelief on her face. “Monty thinks Wade did it.”

“He doesn’t really think so. He’s just scared.”

“He was giving me his ‘I’ve been in therapy my whole life, so I’m practically an expert in human psychology’ voice. He said Wade
expresses his anger in physical ways.”
She used air quotes around the offending phrase.

Rivka looked skeptical. Sunny braced her hands on the counter. “Okay, be honest. Do you think he did it?”

Rivka considered the question for several long seconds. “I’m not sure. I don’t know him as well as you do. But I’d say it’s unlikely.”

Sunny opened a carton of potato salad and divided it up between two plates. She picked up a barbecued rib covered in sauce from another carton and pointed it at Rivka. “We’re going to go visit Silvano Cruz. Right after I give some quality attention to Rude Shelley’s spicy ribs.”

Rivka found the address in the phone book. Silvano Cruz’s house turned out to be a few miles outside of town, right next to where her yoga instructor held weekend classes in the backyard during the summer. Out on Main Street, the tourists were out in force, soaking up the crush season and keeping the traffic moving at a crawl. Sunny took side roads as far as she could, then cut over where Main turned into Highway 29. The afternoon light shone on the hills to the east as the truck plunged into the shadowy tunnel formed by ancient elms lining both sides of the road. When they emerged, Greystone, the granite edifice that was home to the Culinary Institute of America, appeared on their left. On the right were rows and rows of vines, recently unburdened of fruit and on the verge of turning shades of red and gold for autumn. A few miles later, Sunny turned left down a narrow dirt road. A meadow of dry yellow grass and gray weed stalks opened to the left, then the dense oak woods resumed. Further on they passed the yoga instructor’s house, surrounded by neatly manicured trees. Soon after that, they came to a mailbox labeled
La Familia Cruz
in slanted gold and black letters.

Sunny pulled into the driveway and turned off the truck. She thought about chickening out, but it was too late, a woman was peering at them through the drapes in the living room. The woman opened the front door, looking puzzled but not displeased to have surprise visitors. Her shiny black hair was cut in a bob just below her ears and she wore a tidy glaze of pale lip gloss. She was about thirty-seven, maybe thirty-eight years old and was dressed in stonewashed jeans, a pink cotton blouse, and white running shoes. Clean, pretty, feminine enough but mostly efficient and practical. Her face looked slightly familiar, probably from the restaurant. “My name is Sonya McCoskey,” said Sunny, “and this is Rivka Chavez. Are you Mrs. Cruz?”

The woman smiled warmly. “Yes, I’m Julia. You have the restaurant in town. I remember meeting you there once, very briefly.” Behind her, a slender girl of about nine tiptoed close enough to see who was at the door, then ducked back into another room. Sunny heard a man ask who was at the door, and the little girl said, “Some strangers.”

“I thought you looked familiar. You’ve been in for lunch,” said Sunny.

“A couple of times. I’d come in more, but I don’t have time for sit-down lunches very often.”

Sunny smiled. Why didn’t anybody have time for sit-down lunches? Why couldn’t Californians learn something from the Mediterranean cultures? They’d all live longer, happier lives if they took a little time to relax in the middle of the day; then they could work until ten if they wanted. It was a pet peeve of Sunny’s. She put the thought aside. “I’m sorry to drop in on you like this. I was wondering if I could talk with Silvano for a moment.”

Julia stared.

“It’s about Jack Beroni.”

“I see.” Julia Cruz disappeared down a hallway and a few minutes later a stocky Hispanic man in his late forties came to the door in a plaid Western-style work shirt with short sleeves and Wrangler jeans riding low on a sturdy frame. Silvano Cruz had a wide brown face with heavy cheeks and a pleasant smile. He shook her hand and Rivka’s when they introduced themselves. “What can I do for you girls?”

Sunny hesitated. “I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions about what happened yesterday. About Jack Beroni.”

Silvano’s face darkened and his smile disappeared. “A bad business, very sad,” he said. “Why don’t you come on in. We can talk in my study.”

Silvano’s study looked like a fifties-era den, complete with burgundy leather chairs, a big oak desk, and a matching oak cabinet with glass doors, stocked with highball glasses and bottles of bourbon and scotch. A leather-bound set of
Encyclopaedia Britannica
filled the bookcase along one wall, and another held viticultural texts and agricultural manuals whose titles were liberally sprinkled with acronyms—
UCCE & DPR Guide to Row Crop Pest Management
and
Viticultural Preparedness: Recommendations from the CDFA NNPP Task Force.
He motioned them into the leather chairs and sat down behind the desk. “You want something to drink? Soda? Beer?” He held up the bottle of beer he was drinking as an example. They declined.

Sunny said, “I was hoping you would tell us about yesterday morning. I understand you were the one who found Jack.”

Silvano nodded. He looked anything but pleased to be having this discussion. “I found him, in the morning, first thing.”

Sunny waited but he didn’t go on. “The police seem to think that Wade Skord killed him.”

“Wade Skord, as in Skord Mountain Vineyard?”

“Yes.”

Silvano raised his eyebrows. He seemed to be waiting for Sunny to elaborate. She said, “I think they’re wrong. I’ve known Wade for years and I flat out don’t think he had anything to do with it. I thought I’d try to figure out what’s going on, at least find out what there is to know.”

“And you figured you’d start with me.”

“Yes.”

“I’ll tell you what I know, but I don’t think it will have much bearing on Wade Skord’s predicament. I’ve told the police everything that happened already.”

“Well, you never know,” said Sunny.

Silvano pursed his lips. He told them about driving by in the tractor and seeing the dark marks on the stairs, and having a hunch right away what it was. “Blood looks different, you can just tell.” He said Jack was sprawled on his back on the floor of the gazebo with nothing around him to indicate what he’d been doing there, other than the remains of a cigarette he had apparently been smoking when he was killed. The cops said he’d been dead quite a while by the time he was found, maybe six or seven hours.

Silvano hardened his expression and pointed to his chest. “There was a hole in the front of his shirt, right over his heart, about as big around as my little finger.” He held up his finger for them to see. “The back was a different story. The exit wound was about as big around as a silver dollar, maybe bigger. I don’t suppose you know much about rifles or do any hunting?”

Sunny shook her head no.

“Well, it’s not pretty. Those kind of bullets, hollow points, expand on impact, so they go in small and come out big, sometimes real big, depending on whether or not they hit anything
real solid, like bone. They are designed to kill. It’s what you’d use on something you wanted to make sure was dead but didn’t intend to put on the wall. I’d say he died right off the bat. Even if it missed his heart, he would have bled to death very quickly with that kind of hole in him.” Silvano studied Sunny and Rivka, checking to see how they were handling this kind of information. “He was dressed up, wearing a tuxedo. They found his wallet on him full of cash, credit cards, the works, and he was still wearing a watch worth more than my car, so it wasn’t a robbery, but then nobody thought it would be. Whoever killed him never even came near him. They shot him from way off in the woods. I don’t think the cops found anything nearby in the way of footprints and such. Untraceable. I don’t know what they have on Skord, but whatever it is, I don’t think they found it at the scene of the crime.”

Sunny waited quietly to be sure he had said all he planned to say.

Rivka fidgeted.

When Sunny was sure he was through, she said, “You saw his face?”

“Sure.”

“What did it look like?”

“Look like?”

“The expression. I mean, did he look upset?”

“Well, I don’t know, mostly he looked dead.” Silvano took a slug from his beer. “Very white and very dead. And annoyed. If I had to describe his expression, I guess I’d say he looked shocked and annoyed.”

“Did the police find anything else on him besides his wallet and watch?” asked Sunny.

“Cell phone, car keys, lighter, smokes, that kind of stuff. What you would imagine. I didn’t hang around too long watching. I
had work to do.” He nodded to himself as if that was the end of that. He seemed to have contributed all he was interested in sharing. Sunny waited. He drank from the beer again.

She said, “What was Jack like? I mean, as a person. You must have known him. Did you like him? Did you like working with him?”

“You didn’t know him?”

“I saw him at parties now and then, and I’d see him around town, but I wouldn’t say I knew him personally.”

Silvano leaned back and put his feet up on the desk. He was wearing Birkenstocks with woolly socks. That would be Julia’s doing, thought Sunny; something more comfortable than boots to wear on the weekends and in the evenings. He didn’t strike her as a man who would buy himself a pair of highbrow German sandals.

He brooded over his beer for a moment and then said, “Al Beroni, Jack’s father, is a good, respectable man, and Louisa, his mother, is as sweet as they come, but Jack was a different story. He was a real son of a bitch, pardon my French.”

Sunny noticed Rivka blink and shift in her seat. Silvano frowned. “Maybe I should be more diplomatic.”

“Not at all,” said Sunny. “We want to know the truth. Tell me about a time when he acted like, like a son of a bitch.”

Silvano smiled sheepishly. He looked from her to Rivka and back again. “I told all of this to Steve Harvey already. I drive up, I see the blood, I see Jack, I test that he’s dead, I run up to the winery and call for help. That’s it for me. If you want to know more about this stuff, I’d suggest you go talk to Ernesto Campaglia.”

“Ernesto? What does he know about it?” Sunny glanced at Rivka, who didn’t seem to have any reaction to the name, or at
least wasn’t showing any. Ernesto Campaglia was the father of Alex Campaglia, the guy she’d been dating for the past several weeks.