He’d cried when Barack Obama won the United States presidency. The doors, he’d said, were finally opened for all.

Mac filled the man in; when he finished, Torres narrowed his eyes. “This pisses me off. I remember this murder. The victim was Latino.”

“Yes, sir.”

“First a suspect, then a victim. And the ball was completely dropped. I was a rookie deputy at the time.”

“Who was Sheriff?” Reed asked.

“Oscar Beulle. Retired not too long after. Maybe a year.”

“He’s still alive,” Mac offered.

Lieutenant Torres nodded. “Right. Moved to Calistoga to be near his daughter. Grows a few grapes. Pops in every now and then to ‘check on us.’ ”

“I think we should question him. See what he remembers.”

“I agree.”

“Do we officially reopen the Sommer case?” Reed asked.

“Talk to Beulle first.”

“What about your counterpart from back then?” Tanner asked the lieutenant. “Maybe he’d remember-”

“He was killed in the line of duty. I was a rookie. I remember because it shook me up pretty bad. I had a wife and a new baby. Frankly, I thought about a career change.”

“Dig a bit,” Mac said. “See if the detectives in charge of the investigation are still active. Maybe there’s more here than we’re seeing.”

If there was, Reed discovered after several hours, he wasn’t going to learn it from the detectives who had worked the case. Everybody who had touched the Sommer disappearance or Alvarez murder had either relocated or was dead.

Which left former Sheriff Beulle.

Calistoga, an old western-style town with more than a touch of eccentricity and known for its natural hot springs, was located in Napa Valley.

Reed found the man at home, tending the patch of vines he had in his backyard. Folks did that around here, used an available back- or side yard to grow grapes, then used them to make a few cases of wine. He’d thought about it himself, but figured it’d be too weird, considering his family history. Besides, when would he have time to tend the vines? He was never home.

“Sheriff Beulle?” he said, crossing to the man’s garden gate. “Detective Reed, Sonoma County Sheriff’s Department.” He held up his shield.

The man smiled, waved him in, then went back to pruning his vines. “What can I do for you?” he asked when Reed neared him.

“I wanted to ask you a few questions about an old case.”

“That so?” he said without stopping his work. “What case?”

“Dylan Sommer and Alberto Alvarez.”

Beulle stopped, looked up at him. “Thinking about reopening them?”

“Yes, sir.”

He nodded and motioned Reed to follow him. “ ’Bout time for a break anyway.”

“How do you do with your vines?” Reed asked as they made their way to the back of the house.

“Pretty well. Seventy pounds of grapes last year. Got two cases of merlot out of it.” They climbed the stairs to the back porch. “It’s a tasty little wine, too. I’ll pour us a glass.”

“None for me.”

Beulle grinned. “Good man. But I’d only have reported you if you’d had a second.”

He slid open the glass door; Reed followed him inside. It was a simple home, without any fussy, homey touches. Apparently there was no Mrs. Beulle.

True to his word, Beulle poured himself a glass of his house merlot, then a splash in another glass and pushed it across the counter.

Reed swirled the sample, then tasted. Beulle was right-it wasn’t bad. He told him so.

The older man thanked him, then swirled the liquid. “So why now?” he murmured, more to himself than Reed, “twenty-five years later?” He answered his own question. “The remains of that baby. You’re thinking it’s little Dylan Sommer.”

Reed didn’t confirm, just let Beulle go. “And you’re reopening Alvarez, because of Schwann. Same manner of death, secateur to the throat. Only Alvarez had nothing of value to steal.”

“Except his life.” Reed cocked an eyebrow. “You seem privy to facts we haven’t released, Sheriff.”

Beulle laughed. “Don’t play naive, Detective. I still have plenty of friends in the department; what I don’t get from the news, I get from them.” He sipped the wine, expression thoughtful. “Is the ID on the boy positive?”

“No. But it’s looking strong.” Reed sensed that the older man wasn’t just curious but hungry for information. “I’ve got a question, Sheriff. Why didn’t you investigate a possible connection between the Alvarez murder and the Sommer boy’s disappearance?”

Beulle stiffened. “I had my best men working on the case. They didn’t see a reason to.”

“Maybe it’s just me, but it seems like a no-brainer. The man was considered a suspect, then turned up dead.”

“So?”

“So, it’s a red flag. Maybe he was in on it and was killed to keep him quiet. Or maybe he saw something and was killed because of it.”

“If he’d seen something why not say so, especially when we had his feet to the fire? As for being part of it, Alvarez was a migrant farmworker. He spoke almost no English. He’d come for harvest, gotten hurt, so the Sommer family had taken pity on him and let him stay on.”

Beulle shook his head. “Dylan Sommer was abducted from his bed. The perpetrator was smart and prepared. He slipped in while Harlan and Patsy were out and the other children were sleeping, and stole the boy.”

“Not that smart,” Reed murmured. “Not that prepared.”

“No? He got away with it, didn’t he?”

Reed leaned forward. “Depends on how you define ‘getting away with it.’ If the remains we found belong to Dylan Sommer, the perp didn’t get far with him. Why do you think he did it, Sheriff?”

“Ransom. Something went wrong. Or they got scared. And they killed the child, buried him and ran.”

“Maybe what went wrong was Alvarez got a look at them. That’s why he was killed.”

“With his own secateur?” He shook his head. “No. Alvarez was killed by one of his own kind.”

“His own kind? Another human being?”

Beulle ignored that. “Autopsy found alcohol in his system. A lot of it. My detectives believed he had been out drinking and gotten into a fight that ended up going terminal.”

“And that’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“What about the rumors that Dylan had been abducted to be part of a ritualistic sacrifice?”

A mottled red crept up Beulle’s cheeks. “Rumors, Detective. Ugly and destructive. We never found anything to suggest such a thing.”

“No evidence in the area of ritualistic activity?”

“You’ve obviously read the activity reports. This area is known for that ritualistic crap. It comes and goes. It’s not against the law and most of it is harmless.”

“Most of it?”

“Yeah. When they start harming animals, it crosses the line. But in most cases, that line isn’t crossed.”

Reed narrowed his eyes. “Since you’re still plugged into the department, you heard about the altar up by Bart Park?”

“I did.”

“They crossed the line with that one.”

“Like I said, it does happen. I don’t know what you want from me, Detective.”

“Did you question Alvarez’s family?”

“He had none.”

“His friends or close associates?”

“The ones we could find. Asked around in the community, nobody had a clue who would have harmed Alvarez.”

“And he didn’t confide in anyone?”

“No one.”

“You’ve got a good memory, Sheriff Beulle.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Dylan Sommer’s disappearance was the worst case I ever faced. I retired when I did because I couldn’t clear it. You don’t forget cases like that, Detective. Just because you leave ’em behind doesn’t mean they leave you alone.”

Reed experienced a moment of sympathy for the man. “I thought if I spoke with the case detectives, something might jump out at me. I saw that Detective Hurst was killed in the line of duty. What about the other detective?”

“He relocated,” Beulle said, and stood. “The Chicago area, I believe. Left police work. Had simply had enough of it.”