Sour Grapes

exchange. It was warm, large. Even that brief touch conveyed his masculinity, his vitality. Savannah had always found it a bit unsettling—how normal a killer’s hands could look.
    She took a sip of the wine and found that it was very good, even better than what had been served to them at the luncheon. Looking into its vibrant color, she said, ‘They must be pretty, the grapes that you make this from.”
    He looked momentarily confused. “I beg your pardon?”
    The white zinfandel that isn’t really white. It’s this gorgeous, peachy color. I mean... you make white wine from green grapes and red from red, right?”
    “Yes, but...” Comprehension dawned on his face. “Oh, I understand what you’re saying. But white zinfandel is also made from red grapes. You see, when we make white wine, we separate the skins and stems from the juice as soon as the grapes are crushed. With red, we leave them in there and the skins enhance the red color. With white zinfandel, we use red grapes, but separate the skins from the juice right away, as we do with white. Some of the color is still there, but not so much. Do you understand?”
    “I do,” she said, “and I feel like a dope.”
    “Don’t. I know wine, you know private detecting.... We all have our realms of knowledge. That’s why we have to ask questions and learn from one another.” She handed the beaker back to him, and there was an awkward silence as they stood there, looking into each other’s eyes. She was thinking about his reaction with the pay phone the night before, and she knew he was remembering, too.
    “So, what would you like to ask me about private detection, Mr. Villa?” she asked, her tone heavy with subtext.
    He turned his side to her and set the container on the nearest barrel. As he placed a large stopper back into the hole in the barrel’s top, he said, “I would like to know how you intend to apprehend this person who... who killed those girls.”
    “Okay,” she said. “I’ll tell you. I think I should check around at detail shops and find out who took his car in recently to be cleaned... someone whose trunk smelled strongly of chemicals. I believe I’ll start with my Irish friend, a fine lad named Rory, who has a shop out in the industrial area.”
    Although his side was to her, she could see his profile well enough to tell when her verbal arrow found its mark. His entire body visibly sagged. But he didn’t look scared or distressed. He looked deeply tired, a fatigue, not of the body, but of the soul.
    “I see,” he said so softly that she hardly heard him. “And then,” she continued, “I would check out all the used tire places in that same area, to see if someone traded in their nearly new tires—the ones that would, undoubtedly, match that plaster cast we took by the cliff—for some old used tires. And, of course, I’d make sure that the junkyard guy and my detail friend could identify the suspect from a photo.”
    He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the barrel top and hung his head. “And?”
    “And we would check the vacuum at the detail shop for any long red hairs that matched the first victim. I’m sure there would be a few. All we need is one or two.”
    “I see.”
    “And then, Detective Coulter would get a warrant to have the crime technicians check the inside of the suspect’s trunk for chemical residue. I’ve done some research, and I understand that something like, say a bug bomb, lingers long after it’s released... no matter how good a job the detailer did of cleaning it.”
    Anthony laced his fingers together and studied them thoughtfully, as though seeing them for the first time. It occurred to Savannah that maybe he, too, was surprised at what his hands had done. “And do you think... if you did all that,” he said, “it would be enough to convict your suspect of murder?”
    “I think that once the DNA results come back from the lab on the fetus that Barbara Matthews was carrying, and it’s compared with our suspect’s DNA, we’ll know for sure that he’s the father. And if he happens to be a married man and someone who’s in the public eye and quite concerned about negative publicity... I’m sure Detective Coulter will have enough.”
    This time the silence that stretched between them was painfully long. She saw the battle on his face and knew he wanted to tell her. It was building inside him, and he wanted to speak and let it out. They always wanted to talk, but especially the