Chapter 1
Clay
SIX MONTHS LATER…
T here are days when I love what I do. Days when I get a real sense of pride and satisfaction from my job. Days when the reasons why I joined the sheriff’s department here in Napa—because I wanted to give back to the community that raised me, wanted to make a difference in the lives of the ordinary people who live and work in the valley, wanted to be the kind of hero that I so badly needed back when I was a teenager—are brought forcefully to mind. Today, however, is not that kind of day.
It’s October, shortly after the local wineries have harvested this year’s grapes, and the late afternoon sunshine is gilding the vineyards along both sides of Highway Twenty-nine, making all the gold-to-russet leaves glow in a way that’s…almost magical.
No, not ‘like fire’—is that what you thought I was about to say? I wasn’t. Because, trust me, there is nothing magical about that.
But it’s not the weather, or the scenery, or the slight but never impossible chance of a wildfire breaking out that’s put me in a mood. None of those are what has me second-guessing my career choice. No, that is entirely down to my current posting.
Six months ago, I was assigned to the tiny Oak Creek Canyon satellite office. Ever since then, a huge chunk of my time has been taken up with mediating an on-going family feud between a bunch of wealthy, entitled, wastes-of-air winery owners. Technically, it’s all part of the job. A big part actually, because Napa is wine, no matter what nearby Sonoma has to say about the subject. And I do still believe that most of the winery owners here care deeply about what’s best for the valley—since it coincides so neatly with what’s best for them. But you’d never know it from the way some of them act.
See, I grew up poor in some of the rougher parts of the valley. And yes, contrary to widely held public opinion, Napa does have its rough parts. So, I know exactly how people like the Martinellis and the Lambertis view people like me. It’s not flattering. But that’s okay; I don’t think much of most of them either. I’m as frustrated with their snobbery and pettiness as I am with the plethora of rules and regulations that govern wine production in the county—rules that they seem content to either flout or manipulate for their own selfish gains. Enforcing those laws is absolutely in my job description. But all the same, this was not the work I signed up for.
If I had my way, I’d shut down all their nepo-baby playgrounds ASAP, and force them all to restructure their businesses, maybe turn them into co-ops owned and operated by the people who actually work the land. So that everyone can benefit, instead of just the privileged few. But, as I said, wine is big business here in the valley—as everyone from my boss, to the Agricultural Commissioner, to the Department of Alcohol Beverage Control agrees. And the Golden Rule is in full effect. Which is to say that he who grows the grapes (or who owns the land on which they’re grown, to be more exact) makes the rules. And I have as much chance of challenging that reality as I have of…well, owning a winery myself someday.
Honestly, I’m not sure how much longer I can stick it out. I’m not even sure how much longer I should try. I don’t like the idea of quitting; and I have no idea what else I could do for work, if I did. But, if I’m not actually being useful or helping people, then what the hell is the point?
Luckily, my shift is finally over, because I am more than ready to call it a day and head home. Or maybe not. Home’s been a little on the quiet side since my last girlfriend and I called it quits. Maybe I’ll head downtown for a drink and to see what else I feel like picking up there—dinner, a game of pool, a warm body. I’ve got the day off tomorrow, so I might as well make a night of it.
But then, just as the idea is taking hold, another thought intrudes. Oh, fucking hell. I totally forgot that I’d switched shifts with Garcia; something about a doctor’s appointment for one of her kids. That means tomorrow is just another workday for me, filled with problems and paperwork, and probably (with the way my luck is running? absolutely) more bullshit out-of-compliance charges to investigate. Which in turn means more snobby rich dudes giving me attitude, acting like I’m the one who’s inconveniencing them and— “What the fu—? Jesus!” I yank the wheel hard to avoid a collision with a little red sports car that takes a turn too fast, goes barreling through the intersection, and then zips on by, headed up the valley, back the way I came.
My temper flares. But, for just one instant, I hold myself in check. Technically, my shift is over. In fact, I’m already late to clock out. This does not have to be my problem; I could let this one slide, pretend I didn’t see anything and assume someone else will both see and stop the speeder somewhere down the line—probably before they get much farther in all likelihood, and hopefully before anyone gets hurt.
And if that’s not the case? Shit. The guilt will eat me alive. I’ll never be able to look at myself in the mirror again.
Giving into the inevitable, I hang a quick huey and head off in pursuit. Several vehicles have already gotten between us, but they quickly pull off to the side as soon I turn on my overheads. When I get behind the highballer, I flash my brights, signaling that they should pull over as well.
The car—an older Caddy XLR—slows as we approach a busy intersection, and I assume the driver is searching for a safe place to stop. I can’t help noticing that the registration tags are a couple of months overdue. Which just figures, doesn’t it? The prospect of additional paperwork really makes my day. My already fucked up evening is about to become even more fucked, and I have only myself to blame.
But then, in the next instant, the car speeds up again. “Oh no, you don’t,” I growl as it flies through the intersection just as the yellow light turns to red, forcing me to employ my sirens as I run the light.
I grab the mike for the bullhorn, advising the driver that, “This is the Sheriff’s Department. Pull your car over to the side of the road. Now!”
This time, finally, I’ve gotten their attention. After we’ve both come to a stop, I exit my vehicle (still fuming) only to find that the driver, female, Caucasian, mid-twenties, has done the same. She’s dressed to match her car, wearing open-toed shoes that show off her red-painted toenails, fitted white slacks, a red, off-the-shoulder top that stops just below her midriff and a puzzled expression as she stands on the shoulder of the road, looking like a movie poster for a mid-century Spaghetti Western. Her hands are fisted on her hips. Her gaze is glued to the front of my SUV. A red and white polka-dot scarf holds her long hair off her face. But the ends of the scarf and the bulk of her mane snap and flutter in the wind kicked up by passing traffic—like Venus in that Botticelli painting. Something about that association tickles my memory, but I push it to the back of my mind.
“Get back in your car,” I instruct, frowning as I approach.
Venus ignores me. Why am I not surprised? Goddesses never listen to mortal men. “It’s pink,” she says as she finally transfers her gaze to my face. “Why is it pink?”
“What?”
“Your truck,” she explains, pointing at it. Then her eyes narrow in suspicion. “Hey. Are you really with the Sheriff’s Department?”
“Yes.” For the record, I’m driving a department standard, black and white SUV. The grill, however, is currently wrapped in bright, pink vinyl, so I take her point. “It’s October.”
“The Napa Sheriff’s Department? Really? Pink?”
It’s all I can do not to roll my eyes at her continued obsession. “Affirmative. Now, are you getting back in your car, or am I placing you under arrest?”
“You’re arresting me?” she asks, eyes widening in dismay.
“That’s entirely up to you,” I say, slanting a meaningful look at her car.
“Okay, okay.” She raises her hands in a gesture of surrender and flashes me a smile. “I’m going. Sheesh.”
Just before she turns away, I’m struck with an unwelcome realization. I know that smile. And, somewhere in time, I’ve seen those eyes—dancing in amusement, dark with heat. Where the fuck do I know you from ? I wonder, staring hard at her as she slides back into the driver’s seat. Since we appear to be approximately the same age, the most likely answer is that we went to school together at some point. My memories, however, are suggesting otherwise. They’re suggesting something decidedly not classroom related. But she doesn’t seem to recognize me, so I should probably just let it drop.
“So, what’s October got to do with anything?” she asks.
This time, it takes me a moment to make the connection. “Oh. Breast Cancer Awareness Month.”
“For real?” she says again, craning her neck to glance at my truck. “Wow. That’s a lot cooler than I was expecting.” She holds up her phone and asks, “Is it okay if I get a picture?”
“No,” I tell her—and then annoy myself by relenting almost immediately at the first hint of a pout. “There are some shots on the department’s Facebook page. You can probably download one from there.”
“Yeah? Are you in any of them?”
That twinkle in her eyes is something that (under a lot of other circumstances) I might find hard to resist. “No,” I reply, taking care to keep my voice level and my expression neutral.
“Pity,” she murmurs as her gaze slides over me, as her smile peeks out again, tempting me to play.
Right. Time to shut this down for real. “I’m gonna need to see your license, registration, and proof of insurance.”
I don’t miss the way her mouth tightens as she reaches for the glove box. “Okay so, here’s the story,” she says, and once again I feel my temper start to rise.
“There’s a story?” Of course, there fucking is. I am fresh off the “I Can Explain Everything, Officer” Oak Creek Canyon Winery Summer Tour, where nearly every day found someone with more money than morals coming at me with some tragic tale about how they were being maligned, or persecuted, or misunderstood. And no, it doesn’t help that a lot of the times they were right. Because, even when I did eventually side with them, they still acted like I was the one at fault for simply doing my job.
“Well, you see…”
“No paperwork?” I say, hazarding a guess.
“What?” She frowns. “Oh no, no, no. Nothing like that. I mean, I think it’s all here. It should be. But, as I’m trying to explain, I just bought this car. I mean, literally. I picked it up in Oakland less than half an hour ago. So, obviously I haven’t had a chance to register it yet. Also, I don’t have the insurance paperwork, but I have several days to get that, don’t I? That’s what they told me.”
“Mm,” reply, noncommittally. Technically, she’s right. But Oakland to Napa in under half an hour? Yeah, that means she’s been speeding the whole way here. “You do know that the speed limit on most of twenty-nine is fifty miles an hour, right?”
She winces in response. “Um…yeah, I guess I was forgetting that. Sorry. I’ve been living in Europe for the past few years. They don’t even have speed limits there.”
“Uh-huh,” I mutter without much interest. I don’t know if that’s true, and I don’t much care. I’m more concerned with sorting through the folder of paperwork she’s handed me. Bill of sale—dated today, as stated—check. Expired registration—already noted—check. Maintenance records—I don’t need those. And okay; I’m surprised to note that everything seems to be in order. I could cite her for the tags or leave it for the DMV to sort out (they will anyway). That just leaves the speeding charge, but the easiest thing would be to do us both a favor and let her off with a warning.
“I’ll still need to see your license,” I remind her, handing back the folder.
“Oh…right.” As she twists around to reach into the back seat, her shirt rides up baring several more inches of smooth, bare, suntanned skin. I try not stare as she spends a long moment digging around for something out of sight, but I can’t exactly take my eyes off her either, can I? Granted, it doesn’t seem likely, but she could be reaching for a gun. So…I end up staring, all the same. Which is not exactly a hardship. She’s beautiful, which I already knew. And I’m pretty sure I’m going to let her go with a warning and a favorable first impression of me in the event we ever do run into each other again. Spoiler alert: I’m hoping we do.
The late afternoon sun is warm and dry, the air is dusty; and in my full uniform, I’ve begun to sweat by the time she finally emerges with a backpack, which she then searches through for nearly a minute, before—finally! –handing me a booklet, about the size of a passport. “Here you go.”
I look at it blankly. “What the hell is this?”
“International Driver’s License,” she replies with a smile that I’m pretty certain is one-hundred-percent pure bluff. I’ve got one of my own, so I know it well. “It’s for driving internationally. And, like I said, I’ve been traveling, so…”
“Yeah well, unfortunately, the State of California does not recognize it for driving here.”
“What? Why not? I mean, I got it in California, right before I left. How can they not recognize it?”
“I don’t make the rules,” I tell her, which (given how often I’ve had to say that lately) I’m starting to think I ought to get tattooed on my forehead. “And anyway—” I take a quick glance inside to confirm my suspicions. Yep, just as I thought. “It’s expired. So, what else you got?”
“I uh…” She looks a little panicked, and that draws an exasperated sigh from my throat.
“You do have a valid license, don’t you?” Because if she doesn’t, we’re both screwed—and not in a good way.
“Of course! I mean, I would have had to, right?” She waves at the booklet in my hand and adds, “They wouldn’t have given me that without one.”
“Great. Then I’ll need to see it.”
She heaves a big sigh, causing her breasts to rise, pushing against the neckline of her blouse like twin waves surging against a jetty, which I do appreciate (inappropriate, I know, but unavoidable, all the same); then she looks at me entreatingly. “Look, Romeo…”
My thoughts stall out. What the fuck did she just call me? Romeo? That was unwarranted. I may be thinking inappropriate thoughts, but my actions have been one-hundred percent professional. Fuck if I know why she thinks baiting me like that is gonna help her case. And if that’s her idea of flirting? Well, all I can say is it’s missed the mark by several miles.
“…mentioned that I’ve been traveling, right? So, yes, I have a current one. At least I’m pretty sure I do. But obviously my family wouldn’t have been able to send it to me, since they didn’t know where I’d be.”
“Unfortunately, Napa County has a zero-tolerance policy when it comes to driving without a license,” I inform her. “Now, I’m gonna ask you once again. Do you have a license on you, or not?”
She reaches into her bag once more and comes out with a familiar looking laminated card. “I have this,” she says in a small voice that contains an even smaller (and entirely baseless) amount of hope because…
“This is expired.”
“I know that. But like I just explained…”
Whatever else she says is lost on me, due to the rush of blood to my face. ?Venga! I recognize the name on the license: Allegra Martinelli, youngest member of the family that’s helped to make my last few months a living hell—and me the laughingstock of the entire department. But that’s not the worst of it. Thanks to the several-years-old-now picture on her license, I now remember exactly where and when I know her from.
She’s been playing you, hombre , my inner voice taunts me. She clocked you from the start. That’s why she called you Romeo. Sonofabitch.
“I’ll need the keys to your car,” I tell her, interrupting whatever she’s saying and holding out a hand.
“Okay?” she mutters, reaching into the console and handing me her fob. “What happens now?”
“Now we wait for the tow truck to get here,” I tell her as I head back to my vehicle to call for one.
“The tow truck? Why?”
“I’m impounding your vehicle.”
“What? No. You can’t!” She slides from her seat and starts after me. “Please! I?—”
“ You will stay with your car,” I order, as I stop and pivot to glare at her. “Or I will place you under arrest.”
“Bu-but what do I do now?” she asks as she sinks exhaustedly onto the seat. “You aren’t going to j-just l-leave me here, are you?”
I’m tempted to tell her that turn around is fair play, but I refuse to give her the satisfaction of knowing that I know that she knows that I…you know what? It doesn’t matter.
“I will give you a ride to the station,” I say instead. “You can call someone and have them pick you up there, after you—or they—pay the fees.”
“But I can’t— Th-there’s no one. I…”
But that’s definitely a lie. I know she has family, and that her family has money, so… “I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?”
“Romeo, please,” she begs, rising out of her seat. “Can’t we just?—”
“Do not call me that!” I say as I level a finger in her direction. “And stay with your car—or else.”