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He waved his hand. “Not at this time.”
I looked over at Press, who was writing notes on his tablet but raised his head. “While Beau is tracking her cell phone and you’re obtaining photos, let’s begin looking deeper into the sister.”
“I’ll see if she has any kind of record,” volunteered Vaile “Zin” Oliver, the sole attorney in our group.
“I’ll check medical records,” offered my brother, Dalton, who’d earned the nickname Bones when he became a doctor.
Next, I turned to Salazar and Rascon Avila—aka Snapper and Kick—who were Brix’s two youngest brothers. “Please visit the university tomorrow and see if you can find anyone who knows Luisa Reeve or her boyfriend, Jorge.”
Both men nodded.
That left Cru Avila, also one of Brix’s brothers.
“I’ll start checking DMV records. If she doesn’t have a car registered in her name, I’ll check her mother’s. What about her father?” he asked.
“He’s deceased,” Tryst answered before I could.
“Anything else tonight?” I asked.
When no one spoke up, I adjourned the meeting, saying we’d reconvene tomorrow but I’d let everyone know when and where in the morning.
“Are you releasing anything this month?” Press asked, changing the subject.
“My father wants to wait until December to do a public release. Wine-club members will get shipments of new vintages mid-November. What about you?”
“Something similar. Maybe a few bottles of Pinot.” Press seemed distracted, or he was as tired as I was, given it was almost midnight.
“Hey, who won your bid?” I hadn’t been paying the slightest bit of attention to who any of the winners were.
Press shook his head. “You don’t want to know.”
“Which means you have to tell me.” I was intrigued when my friend’s face flushed. “If you don’t, I’ll ask the others before they leave.”
“My mother.”
I raised a brow.
“Both Beau and me. She said it’s the only way she can get either of us to spend any time with her.”
“Ouch.”
“Right? At least she said it privately. Still bloody embarrassing.”
“What about the Avila brothers?” I asked.
“Felicity Hope had the winning bid for a date with Cru.” As far as winery owners’ daughters went, Felicity was one of the least objectionable. “I can’t remember who bid on Snapper or Kick.”
“Eberly Warwick bid on me,” said Snapper, walking over to us.
“Wait a minute. How old is she?” The last time I saw her, she couldn’t have been over sixteen.
“Twenty-two or twenty-three. Maybe the same age as Luisa Reeve. I’ll ask if she knows her.”
“What about you?” I asked Kick, who’d walked up when Snapper did.
“Helena Jordan. She’s my mother’s age. Maybe older,” he grumbled.
“And yet unmarried,” said Tryst, also joining us.
