Wine and Die (A Gripping Serial Killer Thriller) (Detective Julia Sawyer Book 2)

  Wine and Die

  A Detective Julia Sawyer Story #2

  Rachel Hargrove

  Edited by

  K Knights

  Rachel Hargrove

  Contents

  1. The Killer

  2. The Cop

  3. The Cop

  4. The Writer

  5. The Cop

  6. The Cop

  7. The Cop

  8. The Writer

  9. The Cop

  10. The Writer

  11. The Cop

  12. The Cop

  13. The Cop

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2017 by Rachel Hargrove

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  1 The Killer

  He hates Louis. He hates his nasal, French accent, his thin-lipped smile, and his ridiculously overpriced designer jeans. The way he walks—loud, heavy steps that make the floor tremble in his wake. Louis is the foul-smelling cloud that enters a room, unseen. Louis is the blight of the world.

  And now he’s dying.

  Louis lays in a growing pool of his blood, and the not-quite killer fights a rising tide of panic. The man didn’t mean to hurt the sommelier that badly—it happened like a lightning bolt of rage to his brain. Louis' back was turned. The bottle in his hand broke on Louis' head. He doesn’t recall striking the boy. The flash of white-hot anger was blinding, and Louis dropped before the man realized what he’d done. There was no well of resistance to draw from. For a moment he was powerless against the violent thoughts swirling inside him. That brief lapse of sanity was all it took to end the boy’s life.

  Now what?

  The list burns a hole in his pocket. Those who could ruin him: The Master Sommelier, The Cellar Rat, The Writer, and on and on. It started as a fantasy. Everyone has one. Don’t they?

  It’s the boy’s fault.

  He wouldn't be on the ground, twitching like an insect if hadn't poked his abnormally large nose where it didn't belong. Unfortunately, Louis isn’t just a smear on his shoe. He belongs to someone. They’ll come looking for the boy.

  The man rubs his cheek. Damn his temper!

  No, this is not his fault.

  Handpicked stars of Napa’s winemaking community don’t wear jeans to the Rosés and Reds Convention. When Louis showed up in denim, he insulted the integrity of the event. Black-tie affair. No jeans allowed. Did that stop Louis? Nope. His ridiculous reputation got him through security. Idiot probably bought the pants from Walmart.

  The man clenches his fists. The French frog deserves to be kicked while he’s still on the ground. He approaches the renowned sommelier whose loathsome blog made him the favorite subject of abuse in wine industry meetups. Bits of dark green glass surround Louis' body. Blackness swallows the boy’s blue eyes. Giant pupils stare at the ceiling.

  Louis is as good as dead.

  A tight ball rises in his throat. I killed him.

  He paces as though Louis will spring to his feet any moment, unharmed.

  There was no other way. Louis was on to him. His legacy was at stake. That writhing centipede would’ve blasted him on his blog, ruined him forever. Silencing him was the right thing. Now Louis will have no reputations to tarnish. He’ll destroy no more names.

  The others will talk. They’ll be silenced, too.

  One crisis at a time.

  A gurgle sputters from Louis' dying lips. The killer bends to listen and stops. Who cares? Louis' last words will be lost forever. How poetic.

  Distant voices boom, and the killer bites back the urge to swear. He needs to leave. Now.

  What about the body? The body that’s still breathing?

  The winery doesn’t afford many options for hiding half-dead men. Stainless steel wine tanks surround him. The oak barrels are too small. His gaze darts, assessing.

  Damn it, the voices are growing louder. The killer will be caught, and he won’t survive prison—he’s not built to thrive in that kind of environment. God, it boils his blood that he would be the one punished. What of the lives Louis ruined?

  There should have been a plan. This was a stupid, stupid thing to do. The list weighed heavy in his pocket for weeks, and he’d been fantasizing for days on how to silence these men—most of them in graphic ways he loved picturing in his head. But that’s all they were. Fantasies. Until Louis was dumb enough to confront him.

  Too late for regrets.

  The killer grabs Louis' arms and drags. Bastard is heavier than he looks. The only hiding place visible is the open fermentation bin. He struggles with the weight, stifling a groan as he lifts Louis to a standing position. Then he glances inside. A mouth-watering scent of processing grapes hits his nose. A shame, really. Wasting gallons of Fontaine Family Vineyards Cabernet Sauvignon is a far bigger crime than killing Louis Rousseau.

  The killer hoists Louis' torso over the edge of the bin and lets him fall. Then he shoves Louis' legs inside. The liquid splashes and sticks to the sides like clots of blood. Purple rapidly crawls across Louis' unblinking eyes.

  "Bon soir, asshole. I can’t say I’ll miss you."

  With a sigh, the killer pulls the list out and turns away from the splashing. He doesn’t have a pen, so he makes an invisible line with his finger through the word.

  The Master Sommelier.

  2 The Cop

  Someone’s going to get murdered.

  Preferably the straggling bleach blonde, Skylar, whose sighs grate like nails on a chalkboard. Jules glances behind.

  True to form, Skylar clutches her Barbie-pink dress, cradling a non-existent bulge. "I’m so fat, you guys," she echoes for the thousandth time. "Ugh. One night of eating carbs, and look at me. I’m a whale."

  If that’s fat, perhaps she should talk to one of Jules’ rolls. Skylar can whine about how fat she is later. Right now they need to find Ashley. The bride-to-be.

  Who’s nowhere to be found.

  "Skylar," she snaps, interrupting the girl's diatribe of how many carbs are in a single glass of wine. Skylar wavers on unsteady feet, her stare vacant and her mouth purple. Like a zombie that gorged themselves sick. "Can we focus? The winery closes in a few minutes."

  Not to mention they’re not supposed to be here.

  The stainless steel maze taunts Jules with the heady scent of wine. She wanders through the restricted area. Circular tanks the size of redwood sequoias line the walls in pairs, and the machines hum as they process grapes. The ambrosial smell and the earthy tones of oak tug at her stomach, but she’d rather be anywhere but here.

  The winery is cavernous. Lots of places to hide. The barrels stacked in columns, stamped with Fontaine Family Vineyards. Her head swims as she passes aisle after empty aisle.

  "Ashley?" Jules hisses.

  She winces at the corresponding echo. It’s unlikely the owner wouldn’t forgive a drunken bachelorette party for stepping over the RESTRICTED sign and rope, but she’s a cop, for God’s sake. Sneaking around in the dark goes against every instinct. So does drinking herself into a stupor, but once she found the cheese and red wine pairing table, she had to try them all. The Cabernet Sauvignon she nursed earlier would have gone great with the sharp tang of a salty white cheddar. Maybe some fig crackers, too. Man, that sounds good. No. No more booze. The Pepto-Bismol pills she inhaled an hour ago are droplets of wate
r on a raging fire.

  Part of her bad mood is because it’s late. She’s tired. Dragging her feet. They don’t even feel like feet anymore; more like bloody stumps wrapped in leather that dig into her flesh. Ashley, the one who made her come on this trip, also forced her to wear these ridiculous pumps. A couple hours in them was enough. Never again. Every step kills. Her stomach ulcers stab like a knife. The last of her trustworthy pink tablets dissolved on her tongue hours ago.

  Time to go.

  Jules cups her hands around her mouth. "Ashley!"

  The high ceilings bounce her voice. It won’t be long before a worker pops out of a door and catches them skulking here. She crouches in her heels, cursing as she checks the space under the tanks for a pair of legs. The clack-clack of Ashley’s pumps draws her attention. Bright-pink shoes. That’s her.

  "What?" Ashley’s reply booms from behind a row of barrels.

  Finally.

  "We need to leave," Jules says, standing. "Now."

  "Not yet, Mom. You gotta look at this!"

  This is starting to piss her off. "I’m not your damn mom, and I’ll drag you from here if I have to. We’re not supposed to be here."

  "Geez. Crab cakes."

  "What the hell does that mean?" The giggling idiot will get them all thrown out for trespassing.

  Ashley’s bubblegum shoes disappear in a flash before Jules can move. Her wine-logged limbs refuse to budge. A forty-dollar ticket to a Rosés and Reds convention with unlimited tastings will do that. Walking is a chore, but she uses the machinery to steady her balance and heads toward Ashley. She sighs like an exhausted mom chasing after a wayward child.

  A sharp yelp and a loud thump echo through the darkness. "Damn it! I broke my heel!"

  This isn’t what she signed up for.

  Every once in a while, Jules can afford to put the badge and gun down to have fun. It was supposed to be a fun weekend of wining and dining with her best friend. Napa’s golden, rolling hills and the charming ranch-style house they rented would be where she'd rest up and decompress. After dealing with a serial killer and the train ride from hell weeks before, she needed the break. Instead, she’s herding Ashley and her twenty-something friend, cringing from the incessant squealing, and chasing after the bride-to-be. God, the screaming. Was Jules that loud fifteen years ago?

  Somewhere, a door opens and slams. The loudness makes them jump. Distant voices echo, and Jules hurries to the now moaning Ashley, who sits on the floor cradling her ankle. God, is she hurt?

  Ashley sits with her back against the oak barrels, a yellow summer dress splayed over tanned legs. Like wilted flower petals, dark, wavy hair spills over her head and shoulders. The broken heel lies beside her.

  She grimaces at Jules. "Sorry. I’ll get—I’ll get up."

  "Take off your shoes before you twist your ankle."

  Sheepish, Ashley hobbles on one bare foot before slipping off the other pump. A drunken smile plays on her lips. "Jus’ wanted more."

  "Yeah, whatever." Jules tugs Ashley’s arm over her shoulder and groans with the weight. The bride-to-be isn’t as petite as she looks. Jules gives the girl a sharp jab in the ribs to make her walk. Ashley stumbles, nearly crashing into the tower of barrels, and laughs when Jules snatches her back.

  They hobble toward the main hall like an awkward crab. Almost there. The rope and the sign that Ashley ignored hang undisturbed. People walk from booth to booth, not bothering to glance in their direction. Just a few more paces, and they’ll be in the clear.

  "What’s that?" Skylar says, pointing at the ground.

  "Skylar, can you please keep your voice down?"

  "Sorry."

  Something sticky adheres to the bottom of Jules’ shoe. Deep-red blotches spatter the floor. She lifts her heel and leaves a footprint on the cement.

  Jesus.

  Someone spilled their drink and didn’t wipe up the mess?

  Frustration needles her chest as she stares at the clueless women-children gaping at her. "Who did this?"

  Ashley mumbles something that sounds like, "Not me."

  The noise of glass rolling over the hard floor interrupts the flood of denials. The broken bottle slides into view like a bloodied hand reaching out. The jagged edges are slicked with wine. The label is gone.

  How irresponsible is that? Anyone could trip and cut open their leg.

  "Stay still for a second," Jules tells Ashley, bending to pick up the shattered glass.

  As her fingers touch the lip of the bottle, Skylar's scream rips through the silence. It’s one of those high-pitched, excited shrieks that Jules has dealt with all weekend. Her eardrums are permanently damaged by now.

  What the hell happened? "Shut up!"

  "Oh my God!" Skylar points at something, hand trembling over her mouth. "I can’t believe it."

  "What?"

  Jules has to focus, and then she wonders how she missed the long shape protruding from the open basin in the first place. Someone aims their iPhone up at the object. An arm extends from the vat of simmering wine, the skin deep red. In this light, she can’t tell whether it’s booze or blood.

  "There’s a person in there," Ashley says in a thin voice.

  The hair-raising screams rise in another wave. A spike of adrenaline forces out the unpleasant buzz churning her stomach. Jules grips the hand railing and steps on the ladder to hang her head over the side. It stinks, and all she sees is darkness.

  "Give me a phone!"

  Someone hands her a phone, and Jules moves its beam toward the mass huddled in the liquid. It illuminates one body part at a time: the lifeless arm hanging limp, his shoulder partially submerged, and his head, bobbing like a buoy. Damp curls break to reveal an injury that leadens her stomach.

  Definitely dead.

  His skull is cratered, and bits of brain matter cling to his hair like chunks of pale vomit. Dead Guy isn’t an attendee who wandered off and happened to fall into a vat of wine. His head is caved in.

  "What's going on?" someone asks.

  "He’s dead." Jules steps down, rattled and fighting the wave of nausea.

  "Oh my God! How?"

  Jules’ toe hits the broken bottle, which spins in a lazy circle. She bends and studies the teeth-like edges. The iPhone’s light shines through the glass, which isn’t swimming with wine. The stains shine bright red. Blood.

  She just found the murder weapon.

  3 The Cop

  A half hour ago, the smell in the winery wasn’t sickly sweet, and her mouth watered at having one more glass paired with a chocolate truffle. Now the stench of the body overpowers her nose, and the semi-digested alcohol sits in her stomach like tar. Nothing like a wine-bloated corpse to ruin a buzz. She’ll never be able to drink after this.

  Jules braces herself and peeks inside the bin. Apart from the aroma, it’s not that bad. Impossible to tell the juice and blood apart, but not immediately offensive. A slurry of grapes blankets the body in brilliant purple and red. His hand sticks out, claw-like, as though he tried to climb from the muck.

  Okay, that’s awful.

  A line of nausea crawls up her tongue. She’s too buzzed to deal with this, but she was the first officer at the crime scene, and she’d rather work than play babysitter with Ashley. She called for backup and secured the scene. Probably all the good she'll be able to do right now. The phone in her pocket rings as Ashley fires text after text. She slides it out and stares at the screen, but it takes a few seconds for the words to stop moving.

  How long will this take? We’re waiting outside, and we want to watch the new Fifty Shades movie.

  Sounds vaguely familiar. Not sure what that is.

  OMFG! For real? You have to see it.

  Jules types her response. Go ahead. I’ll catch a ride later.

  OK, TTYL.

  Her head churns for a few seconds before deciphering the acronyms. Turning the notifications off, she tucks the phone away and returns her attention to the victim.

  Thick, wavy h
air to his neck. Has to be young. No ring on his finger. A stiff-collared shirt—she can’t tell the color—with no jacket. Not one inch of him isn’t smothered in puce.

  The ME leans over the bin, staring at the mess. "Talk about sour grapes," he says, deadpan.

  Jules doesn’t want to see anything purple for a long time. "You’re a riot."

  "Sour Grapes Killer," says Mason, the photographer, as he snaps a picture. "I like it."

  They laugh softly, and the huge space carries their voices. Mason notices her glare. "What? I’m just trying to ease the tension."

  Jules lets it slide. Some cops lighten the mood with wisecracks to avoid hitting the bottle at night. No universal answer exists for how to deal with horrifying sights like the one in front of her. Drinking is out, though.

  "His head was bashed in real good. See that? There’s glass stuck in the wound," the ME comments as he peers at the victim. "We need to lift him. Did you get enough photos?"

  "Yeah," Mason says.

  Jules steps away, carefully avoiding the bloodstains on the ground as the techs reach inside to grab the body. It’s messy work. Grape slush spills over the sides as they seize his head and shoulders. There’s a plastic sheet waiting for him. It pools with liquid as they gently lay his dripping body down. The ME will wash him, but Jules wants a good look before then.

  The alcohol stains can’t disguise the man’s youth. She pegs him at mid-twenties. His face is frozen in a painful grimace. She kneels beside the ME, studying the man’s drenched sleeves. No defensive cuts. Nothing about his appearance suggests he was in a fight for his life.

  "He sustained a blow to the back of the skull. It probably took him by surprise." Jules addresses one of the officers on the scene. "Did you find the rest of the bottle?"

  He shakes his head. "Not yet."

  The half she found sits in an evidence bag. Curious slashes written in white chalk are rubbed away. She can’t make anything out but a few dashes and scribbles. The strange marks stop at the jagged ends. Forcing glass that thick to shatter on someone’s head must’ve taken one hell of a blow. The victim would’ve dropped to the ground immediately. Did the killer continue to strike after the victim fell? Blood spatter analysts will be able to map out exactly what happened, but the smear on the floor says a lot.