Velocity

ALSO BY ALAN JACOBSON

False Accusations

The Hunted

The 7th Victim

Crush

For Jeff

As a toddler he called me “Onion”

As a teen it was “Herm”

But I’ll always call him my brother,

my best friend.

This one’s for you.

The only way to make a man trustworthy is to trust him.

—HENRY STIMSON (1867-1950)

You may be deceived if you trust too much, but you will live in torment if you do not trust enough.

—FRANK CRANE

It is better to suffer wrong than to do it, and happier to be sometimes cheated than not to trust.

—SAMUEL JOHNSON (1709-1784)

PART 1

NOXIOUS FUMES

Old Tannery District

99 S. Coombs Street

Napa, California

He was not going to kill her immediately. No—if there was one thing he had learned, it was to savor the moment, to be deliberate and purposeful. Like a predator in the wild, he would waste no energy. He needed to be careful, efficient, and resourceful. And above all, he needed to be patient.

That’s what he was now: a hunter who satisfied his hunger by feeding on others.

He sat alone in the dark parking lot, drumming his fingers on the dashboard, shifting positions in the seat. Talk radio hosts babbled on in the background, but he remained focused on his task. Watching. Waiting.

That’s why he chose the Lonely Echo bar. Located in downtown Napa, the old Tannery District sat tucked away in an area devoid of scenic mountain views, posh wineries, or pampering bed-and-breakfasts. That meant no tourists. And that meant city planners had little incentive to expend valuable resources attempting to polish a hidden, unsightly flaw on the nation’s crown jewel.

Drugs, alcohol, sex, and prostitution were in abundant supply—and in strong demand. While the valley’s profit-driving centers blossomed over the past two decades, the district had become an overlooked pimple slowly filling with pus.

Ideal for his needs.

His eyes prowled the parking lot, watching people enter and leave the bar. With only a single light by the building’s front door and one overhanging the quiet side street, he would be able to operate with relative impunity to roaming eyes—or mobile phone video cameras. With such scarce illumination, neither was much of a threat.

But it didn’t matter: during the hours he’d sat in his minivan, no one had approached to ask him who he was. No one had even given him a glance, let alone a second look. A few women had left the bar, but they walked in pairs, making his approach extremely difficult, if not impossible.

The long wait had given him a chance to reflect on what had brought him to this moment: since childhood, strange, misplaced feelings had stirred him, but he hadn’t known how to channel or utilize them. As he got older, although those urges persisted, the fear of making a mistake—shackling him with a very, very long prison sentence—held him back.

But given the right direction and tutelage, those needs took on substance, purpose, and direction. He was no longer fearful of failing. The only question was, could he do it? Could he kill?

The body that now lay in the shed in his yard was proof that he could do it, and do it well.

But killing a woman. He grinned at the thought. He was a virgin again, about to do it with a member of the opposite sex for the first time. Just like when he was a teen, his nerves were on edge, the fluttering in his stomach constant. Yet this was different. He was not going to chicken out like that time all those years ago. He was ready now. His first kill, waiting for him back home, provided all the proof he needed.

THE BARTENDER PLANTED two large hands on the nicked wood counter. “I’m not going to say it again. You’ve had enough, miss. It’s time you went home.”

“I told you my name before,” she said, running the words together. “Don’t you remember?” She scooped up the photo of her son and waved it at him. “My son. Remember me telling you? About him? You were all interested before. When you wanted a nice tip. Now, you’re all like, get out of my fucking place.” When the bartender failed to react, she wagged a finger at him. “You’re not a very nice man, Kevinnnn.” She drew out the last letter as if she were a scratched CD stuck on a note.

Kevin shook his head, tossed down his wet rag, then turned away.

A natural redhead whose hair sprouted from her scalp like weeds, the woman pushed back from the bar and wobbled as she sought enough balance to turn and walk out. She scrunched her face into a scowl directed at Kevin, then slid off the stool.

The woman swayed and groped for the steadying assistance of chair backs as she steered herself sloppily toward, and through, the front door. The painful brightness of a spotlight mounted along the eave blasted her eyes. She waved a hand to shoo away the glare.

THE MAN WATCHED the bar’s battered wood door swing open, revealing a disheveled redhead. The light over the front entrance struck her in the face and she swatted it with a hand to fend it off, as if it was a swarm of flies. In that brief instant, she looked pretty hot. At least at this distance.

Her gait stuttered, stopped, then restarted and stuttered again. Drunk, not oriented to her surroundings.

He could not have ordered up a more perfect dish if he had spent hours searching for the recipe.

A CHILL SWIRLED AROUND the woman’s bare legs. She swung her head around the parking lot, trying to recall where she had left her car. To the right? Yeah, the right. She stumbled off in the direction of a red sedan, concentrating on putting one foot squarely in front of the other.

Ahead, a man was approaching, headed toward the bar. “He’s mean,” she said to him. “Kevin is. He’ll take your money, then kick you out.” That’s what he did to me. Kicked me out.

As she passed him, something clamped against her mouth—grabbed her from behind—squeezed and—

Can’t breathe. Gasp—Scream!—can’t.

Heavy. So—tired. Go to sleep. Sleep.

Sleep . . .

THE REDHEAD’S MUFFLED SCREAM did nothing but fill her lungs with a dose of anesthesia. Seconds later, she slumped against the man’s body. He moved beside her, then twisted his neck to look over his shoulder, canvassing the parking lot to make sure no one had been watching.

The bar door flew open and a bearded man in jeans and flannel shirt ambled out. He stopped, put a cigarette and lighter to his mouth, then cupped it. As he puffed hard, the smoke exploding away from his face in a dense cloud, his eyes found the man. “Everything okay?” he asked, squinting into the darkness.

The man covertly crumpled the rag into the palm of his hand, out of sight. “All good. Little too much juice, is all.”

“I saw,” the witness said in a graveled voice. “Bartender sent her on her way. Need some help?”

“Nah, I got it. Just glad I found her. Been looking for two hours. But—good boyfriend, that’s what I do, you know? One in the goddamn morning. Unfucking believable. Not sure it’s worth it, if you know what I mean.” He shook his head, turned away, and walked a few more steps, ready to drop and run should the witness persist in his questioning—or pull out a cell phone.

Since no one knew which car was his, if he needed to bolt he had time to circle back later and pick it up. Or he would leave it. It was untraceable to him, that much he’d planned in advance. If it was safer to abandon it, that’s what he would do. He was prepared for that. He was fairly sure he’d thought of everything there was to think of.

The flannel-shirted witness glanced back twice as he walked toward his pickup, then unlocked it and ducked inside. The dome light flickered on, then extinguished as the door slammed shut. His brake lights brightened, and a puff of gray exhaust burst from the tailpipe.

He shifted the woman’s unconscious weight and wrapped her arm around his neck. He walked slowly, waiting for the man’s truck to move out of the lot. Then, with a flick of his free hand, he slid open the minivan door. After another quick look over his shoulder—all was quiet—he tossed her inside like a sack of garbage.

AS HE DROVE AWAY, careful to maintain the speed limit, he swung his head around to look at his quarry. The woman was splayed on the floor directly behind him. He couldn’t see her face, but her torso and legs were visible.

And then she moaned.

“What the fuck? I gave you enough to keep you down for at least twenty minutes.”

Perhaps he had been too conservative in figuring the dosage. He took care not to use too high a concentration, as excessive parts per million could result in death—and he didn’t want to kill her.

At least not that way. His first time with a woman, it had to be special.

He bit down and squirmed his ass deeper into the seat, then gently nudged the speedometer needle beyond 45. Any Highway Patrol officer would give him some leeway over the limit. It was taking a little risk, but hell, wasn’t this all one giant gamble on timing, luck, planning, and execution?

Really—how can you kill a person and not incur some degree of risk?

He rather liked it. His heart was thumping, the blood pulsing through his temples—and a look into the rearview revealed pupils that were wider than he’d ever seen them. What a fucking rush. All those wasted years. He had much time to recapture.

He checked all his mirrors. No law enforcement, as best he could see in the dark. Fast glance down at the woman. Her legs moved—she was waking.

Heart raced faster. Hands sweaty.

But really—what could she do to him? Scream? No one would hear her in this deathtrap. Scratch him? Big whoop.

He hit a pothole, then checked on her again—and in the passing flicker of a streetlight, saw a flat metal object poking out of her purse. What the—

He yanked the minivan over to the curb and twisted his body in the seat to get a better look. It was.

A badge.

He fisted a hand and brought it to his mouth. What to do? Is this good or bad? Well, both. He felt a swell of excitement in his chest and forced a deep breath to calm himself. Could this be better than sex? Sex . . . why have to choose? This really could be like his first time with a woman. But not just a woman. Some kind of cop.

He pulled away from the curb and had to keep his foot from slamming the accelerator to the floor. Slow—don’t blow it now.

A moment later, his headlights hit the street sign ahead. He flicked his signal and slowed. Almost there. He grinned into the darkness. No one could see him, but in this case, it didn’t matter. It would be another one of his little secrets.

HE LEFT THE WOMAN in an abandoned house at the edge of town. He thought about bringing her back to his place, where the other body was laid out in the shed. But he nixed that idea. One corpse was enough to deal with. It would soon start to smell, and he didn’t want a neighbor calling the cops on him. If they found one of their own in his house, they might kill him right there. Forget about a long prison term. He’d be executed. It was an accident, they’d claim. Resisting arrest. They did that kind of stuff, didn’t they? He wasn’t sure, but he couldn’t take the chance.

He needed to get to a coffee shop to sit and think all this through. Now that he was deeply committed, the reality of how far he’d gone began to sink in. And although he thought he had prepared properly, he was concerned he had rushed into it, letting the swell of anticipation cloud his planning. Certainly he hadn’t figured on killing a law enforcement officer. But how could he have known?

As he drove the minivan back to where he had parked his car, he wondered if he could use this vehicle again. There was no blood, and he could simply vacuum it out or take it to a car wash for an interior detailing. If they did a good job, there’d be no personally identifiable substance of the redhead left inside. And then he wouldn’t have to search again for an untraceable minivan. Still—what if someone had seen it in the Lonely Echo’s parking lot and that guy in the pickup was questioned by police? He could give them a decent description of him. No. Better to dump the vehicle and start from scratch.

But as he pulled alongside his car and shoved the shift into park, he realized he had made a mistake. No one would find the woman’s body for days, if not longer. He slammed a palm against the steering wheel. What fun is that?

Can’t go back—that would definitely be too high a risk.

Turn the page, move on.

He thought again of the evening, of what went right, and what he could’ve done better. He didn’t get caught, so, overall, he’d done a pretty damn good job. But something else he had learned this past week was that perfection was rarely there in the beginning. But it would come, eventually.

He would keep seeking until he found it. The next one he would do differently.

2

Smeared blood enveloped the hands and face of FBI profiler Karen Vail. It wasn’t her blood—it came from a colleague who had just died. But blood did not differ among serial killer, philanthropist, husband, vagrant, soldier, or prostitute. Young or old. American or foreign. Blood was blood. And when it got on your skin, it all felt the same.

No, that’s not true. Some blood did feel different; the blood coating Vail’s fingers did not have the usual slippery, wet consistency that she had felt many times—too many times—in the past. No, tonight it felt like pain. Guilt and heartache.

But as the van carrying Karen Vail rocked and lurched, she realized the pain and guilt and heartache were not coming from the blood on her skin, but from the injury that festered in her soul. Her best friend and lover, Detective Roberto “Robby” Hernandez, had vanished. No note, no secretly hidden message. No indication last time they had spoken that anything was wrong.

In fact, just the opposite. They’d had passionate sex only hours earlier.

And now he was missing.

John Wayne Mayfield, the serial killer who might have had something to do with Robby’s disappearance, was likely deceased, and a police sergeant who could have provided answers was growing cold in the morgue. But this man, Detective Ray Lugo, who had ties to the killer—ties Vail had yet to explore—did not mean anything to her.

His had just been blood, like anyone else’s.

Now pain and guilt. And heartache.

“TURN THE VAN AROUND!”

Vail shouted at the driver, but he couldn’t hear her. She was locked in the back of a state Department of Corrections transport truck, a thick metal cage surrounding her. Symbolic in some sense of what she felt.

Beside her, Napa County Detective Lieutenant Redmond Brix and Investigator Roxxann Dixon, stunned by the loss of their colleague, had watched Ray Lugo’s body being off-loaded at the morgue. They were now headed back to the Hall of Justice to clean up and retrieve their vehicles. But Vail had other ideas.

“Get us back to the Sheriff’s Department,” she said to Brix.

Shoulders slumped and defeat painted on his face like makeup, Brix rolled his eyes toward Vail. “Why?”

“We don’t have time to wash. We’ve gotta do something. We have to figure out what happened to Robby. The first forty-eight hours are crucial—”

“Karen,” Dixon said, a hand on her arm, “we need to take a breath. We need to sort ourselves out, figure out what everything means, where we go from here.”

Vail grabbed her head with both hands and leaned her elbows on her knees. “I can’t lose him, Roxx, I can’t—I have to find out what happened. What if Mayfield—”

“You can’t think like that. If Mayfield killed Robby, don’t you think he would’ve said something? Wouldn’t a narcissistic killer do that? Rub it in your face?”

“I don’t—I don’t know. I can’t think.” Vail took a deep breath. Coughed—she’d inhaled smoke from a fire a few days ago and it hadn’t fully cleared her lungs yet—and then leaned back. “He kind of did just that, Roxx. When we interviewed him. He was gloating that we hadn’t really figured things out. We’d caught him, but that wasn’t everything. That’s what he was saying. That he was smarter than us. Superior to us—” She stopped, then turned to Dixon. “Superior. Superior Mobile Bottling.”

“We’ve been down that road,” Brix said. “César Guevara was a dead end.”

Guevara, an executive of a mobile corking, labeling, and bottling one-stop shop for wineries that lacked their own in-house production facilities, had been their serial murder suspect until the task force failed to turn up anything compelling linking Guevara to the victims. When John Mayfield emerged as the Crush Killer, Superior Mobile Bottling—and César Guevara—fell off their radar. Vail shook her head. That was only a few hours ago. So much has happened in such a short period of time.

“I don’t think anything’s off the table now,” Vail said. “We missed something. I’ve had that feeling all along. Something wasn’t right, I just couldn’t figure it out.” She dropped her head back against the metal cage. Tears streamed from her eyes, streaking down the dried blood on her cheeks.

Dixon put an arm around her and pulled her close. Vail felt immediate guilt: Dixon had just suffered her own loss—Eddie Agbayani, her estranged boyfriend, someone she loved—had been John Mayfield’s final victim. But at the moment, Vail could not summon the energy, the outward empathy, to grieve for her friend. She had only enough strength to keep herself together, to keep her wits about her before she fell apart and lost it.

“We’ll figure this out, Karen,” Brix said. “We may’ve caught Mayfield, but we’re far from solving this case.” He pulled his phone. “I’m getting everyone back to the Sheriff’s Department. We’ll hash this out.”

As Brix sent off his text message, the Department of Corrections van pulled in front of the sally port roll-up door in the jail’s parking lot. “Hold it,” Brix said. Vail had used her shirt to keep pressure on Lugo’s neck wound. Brix quickly unbuttoned his uniform top and helped Vail into it.

They got out, then climbed into their cars, frigid air sneaking into the vehicle like an unwanted passenger. Vail was silent for most of the short drive, lost in a fugue of disbelief and depression.

Finally, staring straight out the windshield, she said, “I’m sorry. About Eddie.”

Dixon nodded but did not speak.

Vail turned to face her and saw tears shining on her cheek. The past week had been an emotional and trying time.

But what lay ahead for Karen Vail would be like nothing she had ever experienced.

3

After parking their car in the Napa County Sheriff’s Department lot, Vail and Dixon headed up the two flights of stairs. In the restroom, they cleaned themselves up as best they could, replacing their soiled tops with Sheriff’s Department T-shirts. Vail’s nylon fanny pack was beyond cleaning, so she dumped it in the trash.

“I’ve got a paddle holster you can use,” Dixon said, then led her down the hall and pulled one from a bin on a shelf in the detectives’ off-duty office, which adjoined the major crimes task force conference room.

They pushed through the side door and saw Brix seated at the long table with Detective Burt Gordon and ATF Special Agent Austin Mann. Vail and Dixon took chairs. Vail settled beside Mann—an awkward choice. Because of his prosthetic left forearm, and the manner in which the Crush Killer collapsed his victims’ windpipes, Vail had considered the highly regarded Mann a suspect. She came to regret the accusation. At present, that was the least of her concerns. Robby. I have to find Robby.

For a long minute, no one spoke—it was as if they were taking a moment of silence for their fallen comrades.

Vacant stares and bowed heads.

Brix cleared his throat. “This has been a tough week. For all of us. But if we’re going to be effective in what we need to accomplish, we’ve gotta pull ourselves together and put our personal feelings aside.” He pushed his chair back and walked over to the white board. Found a clear space and uncapped a marker.

Vail leaned closer to Mann. In a low voice, she said, “I’m sorry.”

“Our deal is settled,” he said. “We’re good.”

“Okay,” Brix said. “We’ve got a lot of unanswered questions. Let’s set them out, then start digging. As we answer them, we’ll cross them off the list. And hopefully, when all our questions are answered, Detective Robby Hernandez will be safe, and in our custody.” He looked around the room.

Vail pushed herself up straight in her chair. “The biggest question involves Ray.”

Brix wrote “Ray Lugo” on the board. “What did he know? What was he involved in? What were his ties to John Mayfield?”

To Vail, Dixon said, “You sensed some strange body language when he and Guevara saw each other.”

“I did. But everything we thought, all our conversations with witnesses, have to be reexamined in a new light.” She turned to the others. “When we visited Superior Mobile Bottling, it seemed like César Guevara kept looking at Ray, like he was angry at him. Was he angry because he thought Ray was responsible for bringing us there?”

Dixon pointed at the board. “We need to follow up with Guevara. Find out what his relationship with Ray really was.”

Brix made the note. “And that disc.” He turned to Mann and Gordon. “In the ambulance, Ray said he had some kind of disc. He died before he could tell us what was on it or where it was.”

“He also told us,” Vail said, “that his wife and son had been kidnapped. By John Mayfield. That’s why Ray shot him in the interview room. Revenge?” She shrugged. “Don’t know. Maybe he just wanted to make sure Mayfield could never come after them again.”

Brix held up a hand. “Before you ask, no, when they were kidnapped, Ray didn’t know who was behind it, and no, he never said anything to us about it. Apparently Mayfield said he’d know if Ray told us. And he’d kill his family. Ray was also apparently forced into doing things for Mayfield.”

“Jesus Christ,” Gordon said. “What the hell does that mean?”

They sat in silence for a moment. Finally Mann cleared his throat. “We’ve also got Mayfield’s comment, ‘There’s more to this than you know.’ Maybe he was referring to Ray’s involvement.”

Brix’s phone rang. He reached into his pocket and fished it out. “Brix.” He listened a moment, then his eyes flicked across the face of each task force member. “And when will we know?” He nodded, thanked the caller, then snapped his phone shut.

“What’s up, boss?” Dixon asked.

Brix shook his head, freeing him from his fugue. “Mayfield. He’s still alive.”

Vail rose so quickly from her chair that it flew back into the wall. “Let’s go—”

Brix’s hand went up faster than a crossing guard stopping traffic. “He just got out of surgery. They removed a .40-caliber round lodged near his brain.”

Mann asked, “Is he gonna live?”

“They’re going to keep me updated,” Brix said. “Soon as I hear something, I’ll let you know. When he wakes up, if he wakes up, whoever’s closest when that call comes through, get your ass over there as fast as possible and find out what you can from him.”

“He’s not going to be motivated to help us,” Vail said.

Brix capped his marker. “Any suggestions on how to approach him?”

Vail pulled her chair beneath her and sat heavily. “What I should’ve done from the start. My focus should’ve been to connect with him on a level he’s never experienced before, to knock him off his pedestal. Throw him a curve. I should’ve related to him intimately, deferring to his superior abilities with a subtle sexual undertone. When I did finally get him talking, that’s what I was doing.”

“I may be able to do that,” Dixon said. “But no offense—” she tossed a glance at the other task force members—“I can’t see any of these guys connecting with him on a subtle sexual level.”

That brought some chuckles and broke the tension for a fleeting moment.

“No,” Vail said. “You guys would have to connect with him from a distance, in a less intimate manner. More professional. Be awed by his superiority. Tell him how great he is, dwell on how he outsmarted us by eluding capture for so long. Relate to him clinically, marvel at how efficiently he handled his homicides, how you’ve never dealt with a killer as clever as he is. It’s similar to what I’d do, but where I’d admire up close and personal, you’re admiring from afar. Done well, it can be very effective.”

The men were all wearing frowns and expressions of distaste. Vail couldn’t blame them. But this was the most effective way to get the information they needed.

“As repulsive as it may seem,” she said, “find a way to see his point of view. Build rapport.”

Mann asked, “Can it be done in a hospital room? With interruptions and machine noises and other people around?”

“It’s far from ideal, but we take what we can get.”

“I’ve got Mayfield’s booking photo,” Brix said. “I’ll email it to all of you in case you need it.”

“There’s something else we need to look into,” Vail said. “Robby had a friend in town. I think his name was Sebastian. I don’t know anything about him. Actually—he gave Robby a bottle of delicious Madeira two or three months ago. All I can remember is that it was a winery that began with a v and it was a short bottle with red wax dripped across the top—”

“V. Sattui,” Brix said. “Good stuff.”

Vail pointed a finger at him. “Yeah, that’s it. It’s a long shot. Maybe they remember him, if he’s a regular customer.”

Various members of the task force cocked their heads or licked their lips, nodded slowly . . . clearly, they didn’t hold high expectations for this “lead.”

“Trying to find a guy who bought a bottle of Madeira is not much to go on,” Brix said. “Some wineries have a thousand people come through every month.”

“We don’t have much to go on, period,” Dixon said. “We’ve gotta do our best with what we’ve got.”

“Assignments,” Brix said.

Dixon, the task force lead investigator, nodded. “Okay. Let’s grab a few hours of sleep and hit the trails as soon as people start getting to work. Mann—track down Sebastian, our V. Sattui Madeira drinker. Brix—follow up with Matthew Aaron, see what forensics he’s gotten from the B&B room Karen and Robby were staying in. Gordon. Coordinate with Napa Special Investigations Bureau and start showing Robby’s photo around. Never know, someone may give us something we can use. Karen and I will go pay Ray’s wife a visit, wake her up, and give her the bad news. See what she knows about a disc or John Mayfield. Hopefully something.”

“‘Minor’ detail,” Gordon said. “You got a picture of Robby?”

Vail frowned. “On my old phone.”

“The one that burned in the fire?” Dixon asked.

“Yeah, that one.” Vail checked her watch. It was just after 1:00 AM. “I’ll have something for you in the morning. Brix, you got another one of those contact sheets with everyone’s phone and emails? I gotta enter it all into my new phone.”

Brix found the correct manila folder and removed a sheet of paper. “Let’s not leave it lying around.”

Vail took the paper, folded it, then rose from her seat. “Thanks, everyone, for your help. Robby—he’s very important to me.”

“We’ll find him,” Brix said.

Vail made herself smile. “Thanks.” She wished she was as confident as Brix. At this point, she could not delude herself into thinking they had anything worth pursuing. That meant no viable place to start.

And that’s what bothered her most.

4

Agent Vail!”

Dixon and Vail, having just left the task force conference room, turned in unison. It was the sheriff—Stan Owens.

“A word?” As Owens approached, his eyes flicked to Dixon, then back to Vail. “Alone.”

Vail and Dixon exchanged glances. With Owens’s stepson, Detective Scott Fuller, having been murdered less than forty-eight hours ago—and Vail still in the sheriff’s crosshairs as the likely suspect—their silent glance was like shouting in a quiet room.

“Go on,” Vail said to Dixon. “I’ll be fine.”

Dixon nodded, then headed off down the hall as Owens approached.

“Sheriff.” Vail bit her lip. “Again, I’m very sorry for your loss.”

“Let’s go in here and talk.” He motioned to the nearby interview room. While it would certainly give them quiet and privacy, the irony was not lost on Vail; this was where she had interviewed Walton Silva, Scott Fuller’s alleged conspirator in setting the fire designed to kill her.

As Vail pushed through the door, she caught sight of Brix lurking down the hall.

He tilted his head ever so slightly. “Everything okay?”

Vail shrugged. “Yeah. Sheriff just wants to talk. In private.”

Brix squinted but didn’t reply. He headed toward her as she disappeared into the room.

Owens was already seated at the small faux marble table. He left vacant the seat facing the concealed wall camera. On purpose? What was his purpose?

Was he hoping to elicit a confession? Was he fishing for information? Or was this meeting something more benign?

“What can I do for you, sheriff?”

Owens squirmed in his chair. Leaned back, loosened his tie. But didn’t look at her. “Scott did set that shed on fire. At the school, when he was a kid.”

Interesting. “I know. We got hold of the sealed file.”

“Yeah.” He looked around at the table, the walls. Licked his lips. “We got him help. Therapist said it wasn’t a problem with him loving fire. It was just his way of acting out, of rebelling. He was the right age.”

Vail wondered why he was telling her this. Because he’d made such a scene of accusing her of Fuller’s murder? Because he had vehemently denied his stepson was capable of arson?

“Even therapists can be wrong.”

Owens snorted, then finally made eye contact. “Apparently he wasn’t just wrong. He didn’t know shit.” He waved a hand. “Aw, that ain’t fair. I didn’t see it, either. I thought Scott was a good kid, had straightened out his act. He wasn’t my blood, but he was my son. You understand?”

“Of course I do.” And she did.

“He had come from a broken home. His mother . . . Anita’s a good woman, but that bastard she married wasn’t worth the shit that came out of his ass.”

“I’ve known a few like that. It’s not necessarily Anita’s fault.”

“I’m not saying it was.”

He said it hard, sharp, like he resented what Vail had implied. But she wasn’t implying anything.

“I thought that because I got hold of Scott at a young age, I could fix him. Shape him. He had a rough streak that started when his father walked out on them. But I knew Anita before then. She worked at the Sheriff’s Department as a legal clerk. That’s how we met. When we got together, I just thought I could make a difference in Scott’s life.”

“You did. He became a cop. A detective.”

“He was a good kid.”

Maybe I’m just old-fashioned, but someone who sets fires and then conspires to kill an FBI agent doesn’t deserve the “good kid” label. Instead, Vail said, “You gave him a lot of love, sheriff. Stuff he needed.”

“Not enough, apparently.”

“Sometimes there’s only so much we can do. We’re wired a certain way as individuals. We may learn, change, adapt, but when pushed—or if the stress gets too great—peer pressure or whatever—we fall back into our old bad habits. Because it’s familiar to us, even comforting.”

Owens sighed, deep, hard, and uneven. “I’m gonna miss him something terrible.” His eyes canted toward the ceiling, filled with syrupy tears. “Is that wrong?”

“Of course not. He was your boy. Just remember the good times. Focus on those.”

Owens tightened his lips, then nodded. He lowered his eyes to hers. “Thank you, Karen.” He rose from his chair. “I hope you find Detective Hernandez. A guy like him, he’s hard to lose. He’s one big motherfucker. I know that firsthand. He sure put me in my place.”

Vail flushed. “Sorry about that.”

“Not at all. I deserved it.” He shrugged. “Anyway, my point is, I doubt anyone could get the drop on him.”

Vail forced a smile. “Let’s hope you’re right.”

Owens held out a hand. “Anything—you need anything to help find him, you just let me know.”

“Thanks. I will.”

Owens pulled open the door. Brix was standing there.

“You need something, Redd?”

Brix’s eyes flicked over to Vail. He seemed to read her expression, then shook his head. “Nope. All’s good.”

5

Vail met Dixon in the break room. She was reclined in a yellow plastic chair, her eyes closed and her mouth open.

Vail gently shoved her foot with a shoe. “Hey. Wake up.”

Dixon rubbed two hands across her face. “Yeah, okay. Let’s go.” She pushed herself out of the seat and stretched. “This is gonna suck big time.”

“Yeah. ‘Sorry to wake you, Mrs. Lugo, but your husband’s dead. Oh, and by the way, we think he was working with the serial killer we just caught.’”

Dixon patted Vail on the back. “I think it’d be better if I do the talking when we get there.” They made their way into the stairwell, then down the two flights. “Regardless of what Ray was involved in, we owe it to the badge to do it right, so his wife gets news of his death from us rather than some reporter when the story breaks in the morning.”

As they walked to Dixon’s Ford Crown Victoria, Vail pulled the task force roster from her back pocket and unfolded it. “Can you drive with the light on? I want to enter this stuff into my phone on the way over.”

“Not a bad idea. The light may help keep me awake.”

They arrived at the Lugo home a bit past 2:00 AM. It was a modest but well-maintained two-story stucco in a planned development. A kids’ basketball standard was evident just over the sturdy wood fence.

As they approached the house, bright halogen lights snapped on. “Motion sensors,” Dixon said.

Vail nodded at the eave. “And surveillance cameras. Designed to come on with the lights.”

“Look at the windows,” Dixon said.

White decorative wire “sculptures” covered the glass.

“I don’t think those were installed for their aesthetic value,” Vail said. “If I didn’t know who lived here, I’d say the people who own this house are scared of something.”

“Or someone.”

They stepped up to the front door and stood there, staring at it, both alone with their thoughts. Finally Vail said, “Roxx, we’ve gotta just do it.”

Dixon sighed, then leaned forward and pressed the button beside the door. The deep bark of a large dog started up as if activated by the door-bell. “Ray had security in place, that’s for sure.”

“Goes with what he told us in the van.”

They stood there, waiting, bathed in light with the surveillance camera rolling. Finally, footsteps. A voice spilled out from a speaker. “Who is it and what do you want?”

“It’s Roxxann Dixon and Karen Vail. We’re friends of Ray’s from the major crimes task force.”

“Where’s Ray?” the voice asked.

“Mrs. Lugo, it’d be real good if you could open the door. We have a message from your husband.”

Vail looked at Dixon. They didn’t truly have anything from Ray other than bad news—but by the time they got finished telling her why they were there, Merilynn Lugo wouldn’t be asking what the message was.

“Go ahead. I can hear you just fine.”

Vail heard a child’s voice in the background. It sent a shiver down her back. Shit, I hate this. Absolutely hate this. “Mrs. Lugo,” Vail said, “I’m afraid we’ve got some bad news.”

Dixon looked at her. Vail lifted her hands to say, She left us no choice.

The door swung open. Merilynn Lugo was a thick Hispanic woman with delicate features. Her mouth had fallen agape and her hands drew up to her cheeks as she searched the faces of the two cops. No doubt hoping she had heard wrong.

“I’m sorry,” Dixon said.

And in that moment of realization, Merilynn Lugo burst into tears. That’s when Vail saw the young boy behind his mother, holding on to her leg. Merilynn reached out—her face had lost all color—and Dixon grabbed her, helping her gently to the floor.

“What’s wrong, Mommy?” the boy asked. The dog started barking again.

Merilynn pulled her son close. “Mommy’s not feeling too good.” She took a deep breath. “But I’ll—I’ll be okay. You want to go let Bart into the backyard?” She nodded at him and forced a smile. “Go on, Mario.”

When the boy walked out, Merilynn turned back to Vail. Tears streamed down her face. “How,” she finally asked. “How did it happen?”

Vail sat on the floor beside Merilynn. “A gunshot wound,” Vail said. “We’d captured a serial killer the task force was after. We think it was the guy who kidnapped you and Mario—”

“You—you caught him?”

Vail regarded Merilynn’s face before answering. “We did. And Ray . . . Ray was a big part of that. But while I was interrogating the suspect, Ray . . . Ray came into the room and shot him. One of the rounds ricocheted and hit Ray in the neck. We tried to save him. We rushed him to the hospital, but . . . ” Vail stole a look at Dixon. “He asked that we make sure to look out for you and your son.”

Merilynn swiped a hand across her wet cheeks, balled up her night-gown and used it to blot the tears. Vail and Dixon waited, Vail keeping a hand on Merilynn’s shoulder to support her.

“Ray told us about what happened. With the kidnapping—”

“Is he still alive?” Merilynn asked. “Did the bastard die?”

Dixon and Vail shared a glance. Dixon said, “All we know is that he’s out of surgery.”

Merilynn straightened up. “Then I need to get out of here.”

“‘Get out,’” Dixon said. “What do you mean?”

“He’s going to come after us. He will.”

“Why?” Vail asked.

“We need protection,” Merilynn said. “Or we need to leave.”

“We’ll make sure you’re taken care of. Don’t worry about that. But tell us what happened. When you got kidnapped, what—”

“I think you need to leave us alone right now,” Merilynn said. She clumsily pushed herself up from the floor.

Vail and Dixon rose as well.

“Look,” Vail said, “I know this is a tough time. But we’ve got a lot of unanswered questions, and someone else’s life might depend on those answers.”

“I can’t help you. Sorry.” The dog began barking again.

“A disc,” Vail pressed. “Ray mentioned something about a disc. Do you know what he was talking about?”

Merilynn swung her head toward the yard. The barking continued. “No.” She faced Vail. “I don’t know anything about a disc.”

“But—”

“He’s going to wake the neighbors,” Merilynn said as she hurried out of the room. “Please let yourself out. And lock the door behind you.”

WALKING TOWARD THEIR CAR, Vail said, “Something’s not right. We need to come back. After the initial shock fades. Tomorrow. We have to find out what the hell’s going on. What she knows.”

“Meantime, I’ll have the Sheriff’s Department post a deputy. Until we know what the deal is. For all we know, Mayfield had an accomplice.”

Vail stopped. Her head swung hard to Dixon. “I hadn’t thought of that. I should have, but I didn’t.”

“None of us considered that possibility. We’ve been going almost 24/7 for days. Who had the time to step back and think things through?”

Vail rested her head on the Ford’s doorframe. She was exhausted emotionally and physically drained. Her life the past two months had been bordering on disaster, and she needed a vacation. Badly.

But with Robby missing, she knew a respite to recharge was not going to be coming soon.

6

After the sheriff’s deputy arrived to baby-sit the Lugo household, Dixon headed toward Highway 29, the main drag that worked its way through the various business districts of the Napa Valley. She turned to Vail, who had gone silent. “Let’s swing by the B&B, pick up your clothes, and head over to my place. We’ll get some sleep, eat something, and approach this with a fresh perspective.”

Vail leaned back against the headrest. “Yeah.”

They drove without further discussion until they pulled into the B&B’s small compacted gravel parking lot. Dixon shoved the shift into park and got out.

Vail followed and met her at the door to the room, fifteen feet away. She reached her hand into the front pocket and pulled out the key. Stood there staring at it. “What if we never find him, Roxx? What if Mayfield—”

“Stop,” Dixon said. “We need to keep an open mind; let’s try not to let the negativity creep in. Until we know, it’s all speculation—and that’s not going to find him.” She leaned forward and they embraced.

A long moment later, Vail said, “Thanks, Roxx. I needed that.”

Dixon sniffed back tears. “I needed it, too.”

MORNING CAME and Vail pried open her eyes. She and Dixon had sat on her living room couch and finished a bottle of Peju Cabernet, Dixon lamenting the loss of Eddie Agbayani and Vail . . . trying to be a good friend, listening to the stories of Dixon and Agbayani’s intense but less than smooth relationship.

And trying not to let Robby’s absence consume her. The wine helped with that.

Dixon’s white standard poodle, Margot, lay in her owner’s lap, sensing her emotional void and seeking to fill it as only a dog can do. Her black one, Quinn, stepped gently onto the couch and sidled against Vail’s body.

“They think they’re lap dogs,” Dixon had said as she stroked Margot’s curls of cotton-soft fur.

Vail swallowed a mouthful of Cabernet, set down her glass, and began rubbing Quinn. “But they’re huge.”

“Don’t tell them that. But it’s very comforting. I don’t mind.”

“Apparently they don’t, either.”

Margot remained in Dixon’s lap—Quinn had settled his front legs across Vail’s thighs—until Dixon drained the last drop from the bottle and decided they should try to catch whatever sleep either could get.

Vail lay awake until sometime in the early morning hours. And now Dixon was knocking on her door. “Yeah,” Vail said. She swung her legs off the bed. “I’m here. Sort of. I think.”

Dixon pushed open the door and the usually head-turning blonde was a disheveled mess. “Slept like shit.”

“Me, too.”

“Can you be ready in twenty? I just got a call from Matt Aaron. He’s at the B&B, and he found something.”

MATTHEW AARON’S forensic kit was splayed open. A bottle of luminol was on the bathroom vanity and a square of carpet was missing from an area partially beneath the large overstuffed bed.

Vail and Dixon stood in the doorway. Oh, shit. Her mind added it up in milliseconds: Luminol. A sample cutout. He found blood. Robby’s blood?

“You want us to put booties on?” Dixon asked.

Aaron waved a hand, welcoming them in. “Maid already cleaned it, right? So forget about it being a useful crime scene. But I vacuumed anyway, did a full workup, just in case. I’m about ready to close up shop.”

They ventured in, Vail stopping by the conspicuously defiled carpet. “You found something.”

“I did. I covered the place in luminol—the proprietor probably isn’t going to be too happy with me—but I’m glad I did. I got a hit right there.” He nodded to the area beside the bed. “So I cut away the carpet and sprayed again. When you have heavy blood loss, it seeps down into the carpet fibers—”

“And into the pad,” Vail said.

“And into the pad. It lit up like a purple battlefield. So I took the pad, too. We’ll run it for DNA and see what it shows.”

Vail’s shoulders slumped. She sat cross-legged on the floor beside the void in the carpet. “It could be from something else. It might not be Robby’s.”

“That’s what the DNA will tell us. Do you have an exemplar we can use for comparison?”

“I can get you one.” Vail’s eyes remained on the carpet. “Whatever happened here, there was substantial blood loss.”

“Not enough that someone bled out,” Dixon said. “Right?”

“Probably not. But the sooner you can get Detective Hernandez’s DNA—”

“Whoever caused that wound didn’t want anyone finding it,” Dixon said. “They cleaned it pretty good. We didn’t see anything.”

“Nothing,” Aaron said, “until the luminol.”

Vail nodded slowly. She pulled her BlackBerry and tapped out an email to Bledsoe, asking him to go over to Robby’s house and get some hair from his bathroom, as well as his toothbrush. She told him to overnight the hair to the Sheriff’s Department, and to bring the other sample to the FBI lab.

“Can you send a section of the carpet pad to the FBI?” Vail asked.

Aaron, who had begun packing his case, froze. His set jaw and narrowed eyes said all that needed to be said.

“I want a second set of eyes looking at this. No offense.”

“You know,” Aaron said, “whenever someone says, ‘No offense,’ it’s usually preceded or followed by an offensive remark. And why shouldn’t I take offense that you don’t trust my work?”

“Matt,” Dixon said. “Please. Just do it.” She tapped Vail on the shoulder and extended a hand. Vail grabbed it and Dixon pulled her up.

Vail sighed deeply, then looked around the room. She had only stayed there a couple of nights, but they held intense memories of Robby. Her eyes lingered on the bed, where they had spent their last hours together.

No. Not our last. Please, not our last.

7

As Dixon drove back to the Sheriff’s Department, Vail left a voice mail for her son Jonathan to call her when he took his lunch break, or between classes if he had enough time.

They used their electronic proximity cards to enter the secured section of the building and headed to the task force conference room, where Brix was seated beside Merilynn Lugo. The woman’s face was streaked and flushed.

Vail sat beside her. “I’m glad you came. We sure could use your help.”

Brix shook his head. “She’s here because she wants our help.”

“Of course,” Dixon said. She remained standing, across the conference table from Merilynn and Vail. “Anything.”

Brix cleared his throat and curled his face into a squint.

Reading Brix’s expression, Vail guessed they were thinking the same thing: blindly offering “anything” was dangerous.

“She wants witness protection,” Brix said. “Federal witness protection.”

There was a long silence as Vail and Dixon processed her request. Merilynn kept her gaze on the table, apparently content to let Brix do the talking for the moment.

“To get that,” Vail finally said, “to even get consideration, you’d have to level with us. Tell us everything you know.”

“I can’t live like this anymore,” Merilynn said. “I need protection.”

“Protection from what?” Dixon said.

“WITSEC, the witness security program, isn’t something that’s given out lightly,” Vail said. “There are procedures and requirements. It has to be approved.”

“You’re the FBI, you can make it happen.”

Vail shook her head. “It’s not like that, Mrs. Lugo. The FBI doesn’t administer WITSEC. The Department of Justice does. Application has to be made to the Office of Enforcement Operations, and it has to be approved by DOJ headquarters. Then you’re interviewed by the U.S. Marshals Service, which oversees the program, to determine if you’re a good fit.”

“You have to understand the reason why WITSEC exists,” Dixon said. “Witnesses are given protection because of testimony they agree to provide against another criminal the government’s trying to build a case against. In exchange for that testimony, the government relocates you, gives you a new identity and financial backing to make it work.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Brix said, “but you don’t have any testimony we need. John Mayfield, assuming he survives, is never going to see the light of day, and will very likely get the death penalty.”

“Trust me,” Merilynn said. “I’ve got information you need. “But if I give it to you, I want something in return. The safety of me and my son. That’s the price.”

Vail and Dixon shared a look.

Dixon said, “If we’re going to submit a request for WITSEC, we really need to know what you’ve got. And we need to know what Ray was involved with, what was going on between him and Mayfield.”

“While you’re at it,” Vail said, “you might also want to tell us why you think you need protection.” She didn’t mean for it to come off as sarcastic—but given all she’d been through recently, her tone wasn’t a top priority. She knew that wasn’t a healthy approach, but she was too tired and emotionally drained to care.

Merilynn set her jaw. She either did not appreciate the weight of her request, or she didn’t believe that getting into the WITSEC program involved anything more than stating that you needed it.

With the silence growing, Vail knew she had to do something to get Merilynn talking. She had to treat the woman as if she was a suspect being interviewed. If she could establish a rapport and break down the barrier, the information they needed might come tumbling out.

“I was kidnapped once,” Vail said. “I was drugged. When I woke up, I was in handcuffs in a small, dark place. Is that what happened to you? Did Mayfield drug you?”

Merilynn tilted her head and studied Vail’s face.

Is she trying to determine if I’m lying to her?

“It was a couple months ago,” Vail said. “I’ve had some . . . issues trying to get past it.”

“He didn’t drug us,” Merilynn said. “He came up behind my son, grabbed him, and held a knife to his neck. Ray said it was all about control.” She swiped at a tear. “With that knife at Mario’s neck, what was I gonna do?” Her face spread into a wan smile. “Anything he wanted, that’s what.”

“I can’t even imagine what that’s like,” Dixon said.

Vail shivered imperceptibly. I can. I know what it’s like to have your son used as a pawn against you, powerless to help him.

“It was paralyzing,” Merilynn said. “The guy, he was big and mean and serious. He just had this look about him. He said to keep my mouth shut. I kept it shut, didn’t even breathe.” She sat there a moment, staring at the table. “Everything was like a tunnel. All I could see was my son with the knife at his neck. All I could hear was that man’s voice.”

“The man was John Mayfield?” Vail asked.

Merilynn bent forward and pressed on both temples with her fingers. “I didn’t know who he was back then. Ray kept asking me what he looked like, but I couldn’t remember. I was so freaked out, I never looked at his face.”

“What happened next?” Brix asked. “After Mayfield kidnapped you, did he take you somewhere?”

“He had a van. He put us inside and made us wear blindfolds. We drove for what seemed like an hour. He made so many turns I had no idea where we were.”

Even though John Mayfield was in custody, knowing the location of his lair was important. Serial killers often did not keep their trophies, or keepsakes from their victims, at their homes, but at some other location that either had meaning or geographic and logistic convenience for them. With unanswered questions lingering, his base of operations might yield additional information to the unnamed victims Mayfield had listed and included in his communication with the police. And possibly even forensic clues relevant to Robby.

“Did you smell anything?” Dixon asked, clearly on the same wavelength. “Hear anything?”

“The train, I heard the train whistle. It was off in the distance, but I heard it.” She closed her eyes. “And I smelled must.”

Vail cocked her head. “Wait—what did you say? Must?”

“A by-product of the early stages of making wine,” Brix said. “The unfermented juice of grapes from crushing or pressing them, before it’s converted into wine. If she smelled must, she had to be near a winery, or at least a facility that processes grapes.”

“How do you know what must smells like?” Vail asked.

Merilynn scrunched her face, as if she resented the question. “I spent eleven years working at San Miguel vineyards. I worked the fields, I worked with the grapes. I know the smells of a winery.”

Vail turned to Dixon. “Does this smell help narrow it down?”

Dixon chuckled. “Not really. The Napa Valley Wine Train covers almost twenty miles before turning around. She heard the train, which means, what? How far can you hear a train whistle? Another two or three miles in either direction? That’s a huge area. And this is the Napa Valley. You know how many wineries or grape processing facilities there are in this region?”

“The train sounds the whistle at crossings, and when it leaves the station,” Brix said. “That might help narrow it.” He turned back to Merilynn. “What happened after you were kidnapped? How long did he hold you?”

“I’m—I’m not sure. I think Ray said we were gone two days, but I can’t remember. I didn’t really want to talk about it.” She stared off at the wall, as if reliving the ordeal. “He kept us in a dark place. I couldn’t tell if it was morning or night. We were blindfolded and gagged most of the time.”

Vail scooted her chair closer, then leaned toward Merilynn. “Mrs. Lugo, I’m truly sorry you had to go through that. But . . . what did Ray do? Did he report it? Did the St. Helena PD go searching for you?”

“Ray got a phone call from the man—from this guy you’re calling John Mayfield. He said he had taken us and if Ray cooperated, he’d return us unharmed. But if Ray didn’t, and if he tried to find us or told anyone—anyone—about this, he’d kill us immediately. And it wouldn’t be pleasant.”

Vail looked at Brix.

“Ray never reported anything to anyone,” Brix said. “If he had, St. Helena PD would’ve brought us in. Something like that is a major crimes task force deal, and way beyond St. Helena’s capabilities.”

Merilynn said, “Mayfield told Ray that if he ever told detectives about him, he’d know. And he’d find us again, when we were out shopping or at day care. Or at school. He knew a lot about us. His point was there was no way to escape him. There’d be no safe place.”

Dixon sighed long and hard, then said, “But Mayfield returned you unharmed.”

Vail glanced at Dixon, then shook her head. “Wait a minute. You said that if Ray cooperated, he’d release you. What did Mayfield want Ray to do?”

Merilynn sat back, folded her arms, then looked at Vail, then at Dixon, then at Brix. “If you want to know, get me and my son protection.”

Vail brought a hand to her forehead and rubbed vigorously, as if doing so could calm the building anger. The lack of sleep had weakened her internal checks and balances, and her frustration was threatening to bubble over. “Mrs. Lugo,” she said firmly. “Someone I care about a great deal is missing. John Mayfield may have taken him. He may have him blindfolded and gagged in that same dark place, just like he did to you and Mario. But even if we get to talk to Mayfield, I doubt he’s going to be a good citizen and tell us what we want to know. If that’s the case, my friend—a cop, like Ray—might not have much longer to live. Without food, water—”

Merilynn squared her jaw. “I’m sorry. But I have to think of my son. I will help you. If you help me first.”

Vail rose from her chair, spun around, and stormed out of the task force conference room. She walked down the hall, then stopped, leaned against the wall, and slunk down to the ground. She sat there, her forehead leaning against her knees. Vail was being totally honest with Merilynn: she had no sway over who was accepted into the witness protection program. The Justice Department decided that. And based on what Merilynn had told them, Vail doubted she was a candidate. While it might comfort Merilynn and support her parental instincts, there did not appear to be a clear threat that would require protection.

A moment later, Dixon left the conference room and located Vail down the corridor. She sat down beside her but remained quiet.

Finally Dixon said, “That thing you said about Robby in there. I hadn’t thought of that.”

“I didn’t either. It just kind of came out. And then it hit me. Hard. When she wouldn’t budge, I had to leave before I said something we’d all regret.”

“We need to mobilize NSIB,” Dixon said, referring to the Napa Special Investigations Bureau. “We can sketch out the radius on Bing maps and get them canvassing the area ASAP, see if we can locate Mayfield’s hideout.”

Vail got up suddenly. “Let’s go.”

“Where?”

“Mayfield. I want to see him.”

8

Dixon tried discouraging Vail from making the hospital visit, but Vail would have nothing of it. En route to the medical center,

Dixon called Brix and informed him where they were headed—and asked him to map out the area Merilynn Lugo had described and to engage NSIB assistance with the canvass.

They made their way into the ICU of the Napa Valley Medical Center. I can’t believe it was only yesterday that Mayfield was brought here after his arrest. Yesterday that Robby went missing.

They pushed through the doors into ICU. An open and spacious nursing station occupied the center of the floor, with individual patient rooms lining the periphery. Large sliding glass doors sat sandwiched between translucent walls that could be curtained off by powder blue full-length drapes.

Vail and Dixon showed their credentials to the nurse sitting closest to them. Her name tag read “Helen.”

“John Mayfield,” Vail said. “How’s he doing?”

Helen, a fifty-something woman whose chestnut hair was due for a dye session, consulted a chart, flipped a page, and said, “Looks like he’s in pretty grave condition.”

“Which room’s he in?” Dixon asked.

Helen chuckled. “I’m afraid he’s not in any condition to talk. They’ve induced a coma to stabilize him and increase his chance of recovery.”

“Okay,” Vail said. “Which room?”

Helen’s gaze flicked between Vail and Dixon, clearly confused—her reply should have been adequate to assuage their desires.

Vail, for one, knew her facial expression was not conveying an air of calm and acceptance.

“Three.” Helen’s eyes slid left.

Vail and Dixon thanked her, then moved toward the room. “Shouldn’t there be cops posted?”

Dixon rubbernecked her head. “There’s supposed to be someone. Don’t see him.”

“Only one?”

“I’m guessing they don’t expect a comatose patient to be much of a problem.”

“He’s huge and he’s killed a lot of people,” Vail said. “I think there should be a decent presence, don’t you?”

Dixon raised a shoulder. “Budget’s always an issue.” She stepped forward and grabbed the door handle. She slid the large panel to the side and they walked in. Lying on the bed to their left, hooked up to flexible tubes and lead wires, was John Mayfield.

Vail moved to his side and had to summon the will not to reach out and grab him by the gown and shake him, slam his psychopathic head against the bed frame. Demand to know what he did with Robby. If he did something to Robby.

Instead, Vail stood there staring at him. Finally Dixon said, “I don’t mean to be callous, but the nurse kind of had a point. What are we doing here?”

Vail pulled her gaze from Mayfield and looked at Dixon. “I don’t know, Roxx. I needed to see him, what kind of state he’s in.” She looked down at Mayfield again. “Do you know what I feel like doing?”

“Shooting his brains out?”

Vail hiked her brow. “That would work, too.” She leaned in close, put her face against Mayfield’s left ear. “Should I do that, Johnny boy? Should I take my Glock and put it in your mouth?”

“Karen—”

Vail was not deterred. “If you manage to survive, I’m going to enjoy watching you get the needle. I’ll be there in the death chamber, along with the families of all the people you’ve killed.”

Dixon sighed audibly, then put her hands on her hips and turned away.

Vail leaned back and studied his face. “So tell me, Johnny, will you be seeing your mother in hell when you get there?” There—what was that—did his face twitch? “Roxx, you see that?”

Dixon turned. “See what?”

Vail continued scrutinizing Mayfield’s expression. It was now blank. Had she really seen something? “Tell me, John. What did you do with Roberto Hernandez? Did you kill him?”

Nothing, not a shudder or a quiver.

Vail moved in closer. “Do you have him tied up somewhere?”

“Does he have who tied up?”

Dixon and Vail swung their heads toward the door. Standing there, an icy expression on his face, was a man dressed in a white lab coat, stethoscope draped around his neck.

“You are?” Vail asked.

The man stepped into the room. “I think the question is, who are you?”

“I asked you first,” Vail said, not yielding her ground.

The man stared at her. “Do I have to call security?”

Dixon held out her badge. “Investigator Dixon. This is Special Agent Vail. FBI.”

“I’m Mr. Mayfield’s surgeon. Dr. Koossey.”

“Well,” Vail said, “I guess that makes us related. We’re Mister Mayfield’s arresting officers.”

Koossey threw his chin back. “So you’re the ones who shot him.”

“I wish,” Vail said. Koossey didn’t like that answer. Tough shit, doc. You don’t know who your patient is.

He folded his arms across his chest. “Are you two about done here?”

Vail stepped closer to Koossey. With a smirk, she said, “Doctor, if I was done here, Mayfield would be flatlining.”

“Karen.” This from Dixon, whose face was a deep shade of red. Vail had to admit that was a stupid thing to say. One thing to think it. Another to speak it to the patient’s physician. Certainly not when she wanted answers. Her “pleasantness filter” was failing her. Lack of sleep, stress . . . she was pissed off and, frankly, she just didn’t give a shit.

“Sorry about that, Dr. Koossey. My partner’s sleep deprived, she’s not exactly exercising her best judgment at the moment.”

His eyes flicked down to her holster. “Yet she’s still carrying a loaded weapon. Very nice.”

This guy’s got a set of balls. Wonder if he’s from New York. “I think I’ve heard just enough out of you, doctor. But I’ll tell you how you can make yourself useful. How about telling us when Mister Mayfield here is going to be able to answer questions?”

Koossey snorted and tossed a look at Dixon, as if to say, “Is she for real?”

Dixon must’ve read the same thing from the man’s face, because she said, “Look, doctor. Your patient is an extremely dangerous serial killer. He’s murdered several innocent men and women. Including a couple local cops.” Dixon yanked down on the collar of her blouse and craned her neck back, exposing her throat. The remnant of Mayfield’s work was apparent in blood red, with emerging hints of eggplant-shaded hues. If it had been a sunset, it would’ve been memorable. It wasn’t a sunset, of course—but for Dixon, it would forever remain a memory. To Koossey, she said, “Mayfield tried to kill me.”

Vail likewise exposed her neck. “I’m a member of that club, too.” Whaddya think of that, doc? “We’ve got another potential victim of his out there somewhere, a detective. Until we can question Mayfield, we’ve got no way of finding him. And we’re hoping to find him alive.” Vail folded her arms. “So.”

Koossey worked his jaw from side to side. “We’ve induced a coma. Do you know what that means?”

“I know about comas,” Vail said, flashing on her son’s recent experience with the condition. “But only traumatic ones.”

“Drug-induced coma is used these days to treat refractory cases of status epilepticus and in some cases of neurosurgery.”

Dixon held up a hand. “Status ep—you mean epilepsy?”

Koossey looked annoyed at being interrupted. “Yes. Mind if I continue?”

Dixon and Vail stared at him. Maybe it’s not just me. The guy’s a little arrogant. Probably would have something in common with Mayfield. Maybe they’d have been buddies.

Koossey apparently got the message. “Its use in traumatic brain injury is a bit more controversial. The idea behind it is reduction of intracranial pressure and metabolic activity, to allow the brain to heal.”

“How about we bring him out of it long enough to answer questions?” And then put him under again, this time permanently. Wait, did I say that last part aloud? Vail’s eyes flicked from Dixon to Koossey. No reaction. Phew.

Koossey lifted the metal clipboard from Mayfield’s bed. “It’s not like that. I put him in the coma because his brain is too ill to function properly. The injuries were quite severe. So even if I were to bring him out of the coma, it’s unlikely he’d awaken.”

“How long are you going to keep him under?” Dixon asked.

Koossey canted his eyes toward the clipboard. He looked over the progress notes, flipped a page, then said, almost off-handedly, “A medically induced coma is incrementally lightened as the patient demonstrates elements of recovery. And that, Agent Vail, like it or not, depends on Mr. Mayfield. He’s in control of the situation now.”

He was in control of the situation before, too. That was the problem.

“We’ll be monitoring his electroencephalographic patterns and intracranial pressure, as metrics to help determine when to lighten the coma. More than that, I can’t help you.” Koossey replaced the clipboard, then turned toward the door. “Miss Dixon, you seem to be the level-headed half of your duo. Can I count on you to keep your partner in check so I can finish the rest of my rounds?”

Dixon ignored his comment, but said, “Will you call me as soon as he’s potentially capable of answering questions?” She pulled a card from her pocket and offered it to him.

Koossey frowned.

“Because of Mayfield’s extremely violent nature,” Dixon said, “if we have adequate notice, it’ll enable us to increase security. To prevent him from murdering you and your staff.”

Koossey gave Dixon a long look, then took the card and walked out.

Dixon moved around the bed to Vail, placed a hand around her shoulders, and said, “C’mon.”

They stopped at the nurses’ station. Helen glanced up from her file. Dixon handed her a business card as well. “I’d appreciate if you’d leave instructions for all the staff to notify me when you’re preparing to bring Mr. Mayfield out of his coma.”

“He’s violent and extremely dangerous,” Vail said. “He’s murdered several people. And mutilated a number of women. Sliced off their breasts.”

Helen glanced over at Mayfield’s room. Vail figured she was about to piss her pants, if she hadn’t already.

“Okay?” Dixon asked.

Helen, still looking in the direction of Mayfield’s room, said, “Yeah, yeah, of course.”

As they walked away from the nurses’ station, Vail’s BlackBerry buzzed. She reached to her belt and yanked it off. It was Jonathan. “Hey, sweetie, how you doing?”

“You okay, Mom?”

Vail sucked in a deep breath and stood up straight, as if Jonathan could see her, 2,500 miles away. “I’m fine. Why?”

“I—I don’t know, you just sounded different. Unhappy.”

“I’ve just got some stuff going on here I’m trying to deal with. How are things at home? Aunt Faye treating you okay?”

“Fine, she’s fine. I’m actually having a good time with her.”

“You are? I mean, that’s great—I’m glad you’re getting to know her better.”

“Listen, Mom, I gotta get to class—”

Vail shifted the phone to her other hand. “Right. Okay—but I need you to do something for me.”

“Wow, if you’re making me late for class, must be important.”

“I need a photo of Robby. You remember that one you took of me and him at the academy a couple weeks ago? Can you cut me out and email it to me?”

“You mean crop it?”

“Yeah, that. Crop it.”

“Sure. I can do it after next period.”

“No, I don’t want you going home and missing school.” Actually, given the circumstances, maybe that’d be a good idea.

“I upload all my pictures to my SkyDrive account. I can go into the computer lab and grab the photo.”

“SkyDrive?”

“Free online storage. Don’t worry about it, Ma, I can do it. I’ll crop it and email it to you. You’ll have it in like an hour.”

“You’re a lifesaver.”

“Yeah, whatever.” He hesitated a second, then said, “Is everything okay? With Robby? Why do you need the photo?”

Shit. It hadn’t occurred to her that he would ask, but now that she thought of it, of course he would. Despite the short tenure, Robby had been the most positive male figure in her son’s life—in years. So how do I answer that one? I can’t lie to him. He’d never forgive me. But I don’t want him worrying.

“I just need it for a case.” Okay, that’s only partially true—but it’ll have to do for now. “Email it to me as soon as you can, okay sweetie?”

Jonathan seemed to accept the explanation—and the diversion—but he was no dummy. He would know something was wrong, but he probably also knew his mother wouldn’t tell him much about a sensitive issue.

Vail hung up, reholstered her phone, and joined Dixon at the elevator.

It slid open and a uniformed officer stepped out.

“You assigned to John Mayfield?” Vail asked.

“Who—”

“Your prisoner.” Vail held up her creds.

“Yeah. Why?”

“Because you weren’t at your station.”

“I had to use the head. I was only gone a few minutes. Guy’s in a coma.”

Dixon shook her head. “No good. Coma or not, he’s extremely dangerous. Don’t underestimate him. And don’t leave your post again unless you’ve got coverage.”

The cop gave them both an exaggerated frown, then pushed past them.

Dixon turned and watched him amble away. “Let’s do something productive. Yes?”

Vail rubbed her face with two hands, then nodded.

9

They took the stairs, avoiding the elevator. Vail pushed through the metal fire door and moved onto the textured gray steel steps. “Merilynn said that Mayfield warned Ray that if he told another detective, Mayfield would know.”

Dixon’s shoes clanked beside Vail. “That would seem to fit with the fact that Mayfield had an inside source.”

“Or,” Vail said, “it merely means he had a way of getting into the Sheriff’s Department and finding out that information. Since he had the cover of a pest control technician, he could move about with impunity.”

Dixon pushed through the door that led into the first floor lobby. “I think we should tell Brix, have him sniff around to make sure there wasn’t someone communicating with Mayfield behind our backs.”

“Couldn’t hurt.”

Dixon pulled her phone and typed out a text with her request. The Crush Killer case was in an unusual gray area—it had been solved but remained active because, like a CSI puzzling over a broken pane of glass, pieces were scattered about but had yet to be gathered up and reassembled into a whole. As a result, Dixon was still the lead investigator.

“We should also dig into who John Mayfield is,” Vail said. “Maybe something from his house will lead us to his lair. We might find a trove of information and forensics there.”

Dixon closed her phone, then stopped short.

“What is it?” Vail asked.

Dixon turned to Vail, her mouth partially open. “Cannon.”

Dixon was referring to James Cannon, a bodybuilder friend of Mayfield’s whom Dixon and Vail had met at the gym. He had hit on Vail, then took offense to something Dixon had said. Shortly before they had identified John Mayfield as the Crush Killer, Vail thought Cannon might be the offender.

Vail shook her head. “Ray tried to locate him. He searched for that start-up winery where Cannon was supposedly the winemaker. Herndon Vineyards. Nothing came up.”

Dixon narrowed her eyes in thought. “I’m not sure we can trust anything Ray told us. We don’t know how he’s wrapped up in all this. We need to look into Cannon and Herndon Vineyards ourselves.”

“Best we start with someone who knows the operations of a winery up close and personal. Brix.”

“Silent partner. But I’m sure he can hook us up with his brother or sister, since they’re the ones who run the place. And I’ll see if he can have NSIB get us Cannon’s home address from DMV.”

While Dixon made the call and told Brix what they needed, Vail wandered over to their car and rested her forearm on the passenger window, then dropped her head against her arm. Thoughts of Robby flittered through her mind . . . and came to rest on yesterday morning when she was leaving for the Sheriff’s Department. She had kissed him good-bye and he stirred.

“See you tonight,” he had told her.

She replied, “Yes, you will.”

Except that she didn’t. He was gone.

“Okay,” Dixon said, pulling Vail from her reverie. “Brix is gonna touch base with NSIB, then have his brother call us.”

Vail pushed away from the car door and nodded.

“Look, I know you wanted to put Mayfield six feet under back there—believe me, I would like to have helped you do it—but that’s not what this is about.”

Vail looked away. “Yeah.”

“We’ll find him, Karen. Eddie’s gone. But Robby . . . We’ll find him. You have to believe that.”

Vail felt a tear roll down her cheek. She flicked it away. “Let’s get going.” As she climbed into the car, she realized she wished she knew where to go. She wished she knew where to go to find Robby.

10

The clock was ticking; Vail kept track of the seconds as they melted into oblivion.

She knew better than most that the initial twenty-four to forty-eight hours in a missing person’s life were crucial. Even Robby, a homicide detective, was subject to the same rule. Because cop or not, at the end of the day, stripped of gun and badge, he was just a human being, a vulnerable civilian. When bound and gagged, or being held captive—if that’s what was going on here—the victim was usually powerless to help himself.

The image of Robby being powerless was incongruous with his imposing physical presence: a thick but trim six foot seven. She had seen him vulnerable only once before—the result of a stun gun attack. And that had nearly been disastrous.

But if Robby was not injured or under someone else’s control, a remaining option was one Vail could not bring herself to consider. Whenever her thoughts meandered in the direction of Robby’s death, her subconscious yanked away her mind, much like old Vaudeville acts were pulled from the stage if they bombed.

As they entered the task force conference room, Vail took a deep breath and realized that her anxiety was causing her to grind her molars. Her dentist would peer inside her mouth at her next cleaning and, once again, admonish her for wearing down her teeth. She would, once again, give him a sharp retort—something like, “If you think stress has worn down my teeth, you should see my arteries.”

But of course none of that mattered at the moment.

“You hear from my brother?” Brix asked.

Brix sat huddled over a stack of documents, a legal pad off to his right filled with scribbled notes. Stan Owens was on the phone, his own comments scratched out on a page at his elbow. Gordon and Mann were not in the room.

“Not yet,” Vail said.

Brix twisted his wrist and consulted his watch. “He was in a meeting. He should be out soon. Just so you know, I did a search for the place online. Nothing. Searched for Cannon. Nothing again.”

“So Ray was telling the truth,” Dixon said.

“About that, yeah.”

Brix’s dig was not lost on Vail. She opened her mouth to comment, but both her BlackBerry and Brix’s phone vibrated. She pulled hers and read the display.

“My son just emailed me a photo of Robby.”

Dixon pointed to the BlackBerry. “Send it to all of us. I’ll print copies for everyone.”

Owens looked up. “Include me in that. Time being, I’m gonna sit in on the task force, help you people out.” His eyes found Dixon. “If that’s okay with you, Ms. Dixon.”

Dixon’s expression was neutral. “Thanks, sheriff. We can use any help we can get.”

The door swung open and Mann and Gordon walked in.

“That’s my point,” Mann said to Gordon. “Who woulda thought.” They both took a seat at the conference table.

“Who woulda thought, what?” Vail asked.

Using his prosthetic hand, Mann deftly pulled a notepad from his pocket. “I didn’t think it’d be the case, but there’s a fair number of Sebastians in the area. Between first names and surnames, we’ve got over forty in the greater region. I mean, Sebastian? I wouldn’t have expected it to be that popular. We got a list of names and numbers and started dialing, the ones closest to Napa city limits first. So far, no one knows a Robby or Roberto Hernandez. We asked a couple guys from NSIB to work the rest of the list.”

“I just emailed all of you the photo of Robby,” Vail said. “Can you forward it to the NSIB investigators?”

Gordon pulled out his phone. “Done.”

Brix disconnected his call, then sat down in front of the laptop perched in the middle of the conference table. “NSIB got Cannon’s home address from DMV, an apartment on Soscol. But it’s old. They’re there now. Landlord said he hasn’t lived there for two or three years.” He struck some keys and brought up Robby’s picture, then sent it to the color LaserJet in the corner. “They’re gonna see about getting a forwarding address.”

“Who’s Cannon?” Mann asked.

As Dixon made her way to the printer, she said, “We’re looking into the possibility that a guy who was friends with Mayfield may be involved in this. James Cannon. Karen and I met him a couple days ago. Said he was a winemaker with a start-up called Herndon Vineyards. Anyone hear of it?”

Owens, Mann, and Gordon shook their heads.

Brix pushed his chair back from the table. “Herndon’s supposedly not releasing their first cases for another couple years, so they’re not putting out any promo materials. No product, no press. I’m hoping that my brother, with his wine industry contacts, can get us a twenty on Herndon.”

Dixon scooped up the photos from the printer tray. “That’s assuming that Herndon is real. Could’ve been a bunch of crap.”

“We’ll find out,” Brix said, again stealing a look at his watch. “If it’s legit, we may end up locating the winery before we get Cannon’s current home address.”

“I can give Ian Wirth a call,” Vail said, referring to a vintner in the Georges Valley region, where the Crush Killer had a propensity for choosing his victims. “Ian would probably know just as much as your brother about how new winery applications are handled.”

Brix shrugged. “Go for it.”

Dixon handed a copy of Robby’s photo to each of the task force members.

After leaving a message for Wirth, Vail said, “What happened with the media? Last night we had TV and print reporters here. When that Microsoft techie gave you Mayfield’s name and you took off for my twenty, what’d the reporters do?”

“No idea,” Brix said. “We left through the back. We didn’t want to get stuck answering questions, and we certainly didn’t want them following us down the road and getting in the way of a high-speed chase.”

Stan Owens leaned forward. “I told them it didn’t pan out, that I’d call them if anything broke.”

“Did you?” Dixon asked. “Call them?”

“I’ve been a little busy.”

Dixon held up a hand. “I didn’t mean that as a criticism, sheriff.”

Dixon glanced at Vail, who inched her chair closer to the table. Tread lightly here . . . “No one knows that John Mayfield, the man lying in a coma at Napa Valley Med Center, is a serial killer, and that he’s killed a bunch of people here.”

“Not this again,” Owens said.

When the Crush Killer had started taking lives, Vail had lobbied hard to publicize his existence, which would’ve played into his narcissistic needs and enabled them to open a dialogue with him. Though she was vetoed for political reasons, their silence on the issue now might work to their advantage.

“No, no,” Vail said, holding up a hand. “This is a good thing, sheriff. This guy, James Cannon, if he’s an accomplice of John Mayfield’s, then he doesn’t know Mayfield’s been caught. If he is involved, he’s got no reason to be concerned.”

Brix splayed both hands palm up. “Until he tries to reach Mayfield and his buddy doesn’t answer.”

“Right,” Vail said. “So we’ve got a limited window to act. We’ve gotta move fast.”

Dixon rose from her seat. “Okay.” She looked down, brought a hand up to her chin, seemed to be lost in thought. “Burt. You and Austin see if you can locate Herndon Vineyards. Sheriff, coordinate with NSIB and let us know if anything comes up with either Robby’s photo or his friend Sebastian. Karen and I are going to pay a visit to Superior Mobile Bottling. Redd, can you get a copy of Mayfield’s phone records, home and cell, and see if there are any unusual connections we can make? We know there’ll be calls to Cannon—they were buddies—so even if we have to call every number in his logs, we might find Cannon that way.”

Vail snapped her fingers. “Wait a minute—Cannon was a member at Fit1. Maybe we can grab their records without a warrant.”

“That’d be good, because we don’t have near enough yet to get a warrant,” Dixon said.

Vail rose from her chair, then reached over and unbuttoned the top two buttons of Dixon’s shirt. She leaned back and appraised her partner. “Yeah, but I think we’ve got enough to get what we want.”

11

The twenty-something tight-shirted front desk attendant smiled when Dixon and Vail stepped up to the counter. Vail looked pretty damn good for thirty-eight—especially considering all she had been through of late. But Dixon, several years younger, not only possessed a natural beauty but worked hard to keep herself in shape. Eddie Agbayani, her former boyfriend, had called her “Buff Barbie,” a description Vail would’ve been hard-pressed to dispute.

And the dude behind the desk took notice, too.

“I haven’t seen you around here,” Dixon said, a coy smile spreading her lips and a straightening of her shoulders spreading her blouse.

“Rolando,” the guy said, his eyes drifting down to the last fastened button as he extended his hand.

Dixon took it and squeezed, which got Rolando’s attention. “There’s a guy who works out here,” she said. “He asked my friend here out on a date and she lost his number. Can you look it up for us?”

Rolando’s eyes finally focused on Dixon’s face. “His phone number?”

“I’ll take his address, too,” Vail said, “if you’ve got it.”

Rolando squinted, hesitated, then moved to the computer at his right. In a low voice, with a glance over his shoulder, he said, “No go on his address. But I can give you his phone. Just don’t tell anyone.” He hit some keys and looked up. “Guy’s name?”

“James Cannon.”

“Cannon . . . ” Rolando said as he scrolled down the list.

“Know him?”

Rolando typed, frowned, then typed some more. “Big dude?”

“That probably describes half the guys in this gym,” Dixon said with a grin. “But, yeah.”

“All we’ve got is a cell. That work?”

Dixon pulled out a pad and pen, then craned her neck to look at the screen. “You’re a lifesaver, Rolando.”

Rolando leaned back, but his eyes remained riveted on Dixon’s well-defined cleavage.

Vail cleared her throat. She could’ve sworn Rolando gave her a dirty look—but it worked, because he momentarily diverted his eyes.

“How long has he been a member?” Vail asked.

He consulted his screen. “Looks like it’s been a while. Couple years.” Dixon clicked her pen shut. “Thanks, Rolando. Maybe you wanna spot me some day.”

“I’d—yeah, I’m sure I’ll spot you.” He chuckled. “The minute you walk in the door.”

Dixon returned a wink. “Catch you later.” She held up the pad. “Thanks again.”

As they headed toward the parking lot, Vail said, “You realize he’s gonna be all over you next time you come in to work out.”

“I’ll worry about that later. At least we got a number for Cannon.”

“Address, too?”

Dixon smiled devilishly. “Of course. But it’s the apartment on Soscol. Same one DMV had.”

Vail blew some air out the side of her mouth. “Okay. So how do you want to play this?”

Dixon glanced around at the cars in the vicinity. “I’ll text the cell to Brix, let him have NSIB follow up and try to grab an address from the wireless company. You call Cannon, remind him who you are, and tell him you’ve got some extra time. See if he wants to do lunch. He hit on you once, he’ll probably say yes.”

“He knows we’re cops. If he was working with Mayfield, why would he want to meet with me?”

“You tell me,” Dixon said as she reached into her pocket for her keys.

Vail looked off at the mountains. “If he’s like Mayfield, he’s a narcissist. In which case, this would be like a conquest for him. I initially rejected him, reconsidered, now I’m calling him. Crawling back is the way he’d see it. But,” Vail said, “that’s if he’s a narcissist. We can’t assume he is just because Mayfield was—but it would make sense. There’s a reason why they found each other. Kindred spirits. They understand each other’s needs, they think alike.”

Dixon started tapping out her text to Brix. “Given the conversation we had with them, it’s possible he is a narcissist.”

Vail considered that and replayed the meeting they had with the two men. “You were there for more of it than I was, but yeah, it’s possible. It could also be we’re reading into it, seeing what we want to see.”

“Guess we’ll find out.” Dixon popped open the doors and they got in.

Vail pulled her BlackBerry and dialed. Voice mail. Waited for the beep. “Jimmy, this is Karen Vail—we met a couple days ago in the gym and . . . well, I kind of blew you off. Sorry about that. I was there with my friend, and I couldn’t accept your offer with her there. I’m seeing her brother back in Virginia. Anyway, if you’re interested in catching lunch or dinner, or something else . . . ” she said, suggestively, “I’ll be here another few days. Give me a buzz back.”

She disconnected the call. “Hopefully he’ll respond. And if we’re lucky, his wireless carrier will come through. If he really is a wine maker, this can’t be a throwaway phone. And unless he thought to update the Fit1 records, which is unlikely, he’s had this number at least a couple years.”

Dixon shook her head. “Doesn’t make sense that he’d be involved with Mayfield. He’s got no cover. He’s totally exposed.”

“Could be he never intended to live that type of life,” Vail said. “But the way this relationship might go would be he meets Mayfield, Mayfield makes some comment that’s well received by Cannon, and they feel each other out to make sure one didn’t misunderstand the other. They find they’re of like mind. Cannon assists Mayfield in one of his kills and he gets off on it. He likes killing, it gives him a rush like nothing he’s ever experienced. Maybe they even talk about planning kills as a team.”

“What does that mean for Cannon with Mayfield temporarily out of the picture?”

Vail eyed a decorative stack of wine barrels by the parking lot entrance while she formulated an answer. “Until Cannon finds out about his buddy being caught, we’re probably safe. But once he hears Mayfield’s incapacitated, he may start killing on his own, at first just to prove to himself he can do it. Once he discovers he can, the only thing that’s gonna stop him is us.” Her BlackBerry began vibrating. She glanced at the screen. “This can’t be good.” Vail’s gaze flicked to Dixon. “My boss.” She answered the call and pressed the phone to her ear.

“Karen,” Thomas Gifford began. “I realize this comes at a bad time, but I’m afraid I have to interrupt your vacation.”

Vacation . . . oh, yeah. That’s what this was.

“In fact, Hernandez is gonna kill me for this,” Gifford continued, “but I need you back here ASAP—”

“Yeah,” Vail said. “About that. We’ve got a problem here, sir. I shoulda called you this morning, but it’s been a nightmare.”

“Don’t tell me you’re still working the Crush Killer. I specifically told you you’re off the case, and you assured me, Karen. You promised me—”

“It’s not what you think, sir.”

His volume leaped a notch. She could picture his face turning red through the phone. “It’s never what I think, is it?”

“Sir, listen to me—”

“No, you listen to me for once.”

“No sir. Just—just stop. You need to hear me out.” She took a deep breath, then felt Dixon’s hand on her shoulder. “Sir, give me a minute to explain. And if you still wanna go off on me, fine.” He was silent, so she continued. “We caught the Crush Killer last night. He was shot in the process and underwent surgery. He made it through but he’s in a coma.”

“If you think that’s an excuse—”

“During the day, I kept trying to reach Robby. But he wasn’t answering. Late last night I went to our room at the bed-and-breakfast. He wasn’t there. No sign of him at all. We’ve been looking for him since.”

“Have you alerted the local field office?”

“No. We’ve been following up leads on the Crush Killer.”

“Wait a second,” Gifford said. “Just hang on a second. You’ve lost me.”

His tone calmed, which was a good thing. Maybe he would understand. Help her out.

“I don’t get it. What’s the Crush Killer got to do with Hernandez?”

Vail closed her eyes. “Things weren’t adding up. I kept feeling we were missing something. But I didn’t know what. When we arrested him, I did the interview. He said to me, ‘There’s more to this than you know.’ And then one of the sergeants on the task force, Ray Lugo, burst into the room and shot him. A ricochet caught Lugo and killed him. During transport to the ER, he said John Mayfield, the Crush Killer, had, at some point in the past, kidnapped his wife and son. Lugo apparently cut a deal of some sort with Mayfield to keep his family safe. What kind of deal, what he was doing, we don’t know. And with Robby missing, and Mayfield saying there was more to this than we know . . . we can’t rule out the possibility his disappearance is somehow related to Mayfield.”

“And?” Gifford asked.

“We’re already running down a lead that suggests Mayfield may’ve had an accomplice. If we find this guy, we may find Robby. Or at least some info that might lead us to him.”

Gifford sighed audibly. She could see him at his desk, head bowed, free hand on his forehead, rubbing it.

“The task force is working this?” he finally asked.

“What’s left of it, yes. They’ve got the assistance of the Napa Special Investigations Bureau.”

“I’m going to call the ASAC in San Francisco. And the RA in Santa Rosa. See if we can coordinate efforts. How long has he been missing?”

“No way of knowing. My last contact with him was 8:30 yesterday morning.”

Dixon leaned closer to Vail’s free ear. “The carpet.”

“Oh,” Vail said, nodding. “The CSI here found blood on the carpet in our B&B. He’s running it—”

“Blood. You sure? Any other signs of struggle in the room?”

“It’d been cleaned by the maids before we got there. So we have no idea. The crime scene—if it was one—was probably destroyed. The CSI did a full workup, just in case.”

“Have a sample of that carpet sent here, to our lab. I want our guys looking at it, too. And we’ll need an exemplar from—”

“Done. Paul Bledsoe’s at Robby’s place getting his hair and toothbrush. You should be getting one of them soon.”

“Fine.” There was a pause, then he said, in a softer tone, “This makes what I’m about to tell you even more difficult. But I need you back here. We caught a high-profile case. I can’t talk about it on an unsecure line.”

Vail pulled the phone from her ear, her face contorting into sarcastic disbelief. Fortunately Gifford couldn’t see her—it’d most likely set him off. She brought the handset back against her head. “Sir,” she said in a measured tone. “I’m sure you can understand that I’ve got my mind on finding Robby. I can’t just leave here. Assign the case to someone else.”

“What I understand is that I still have the behavioral analysis units to run and that’s my priority. What I understand is that you’re in a tough way right now. And I also understand that we’ve got a task force there working the case, and a well-equipped San Francisco field office ready to step in that can do the job just fine.”

“With all due respect, I disagree.”

“Not the first time, is it, Karen?”

“Frank. Why can’t Frank take that new case?”

“Del Monaco left yesterday to teach a seminar at New Scotland Yard that goes for another week, then he’s due to consult on a case they’ve been asking for our help on for two months. And Hutchings is on sick leave with an ulcer. Van Owen’s wife was diagnosed this morning with ovarian cancer, so he’s out on bereavement leave. Boozer just retired and we’ve got no one to take his place. I tried pulling Art out of arson and bombing, but they just caught a big case the White House wants them to consult on that might involve a trip to Iraq. And Director Knox isn’t about to tell the president no.”

“So get me the crime scene photos, autopsy photos, victimology—and I’ll look it all over when I get back. Give me a week.”

“Karen . . . ” He paused, no doubt to gather himself, to phrase it in a way that kept him from exploding.

She realized now she had pushed him as far as she could. But for Robby’s sake—she felt justified.

“Karen, this is close to home and the crime scene is fresh; it’s the perfect opportunity to see things as they are. I don’t have to tell you it’s a world better than photos and reports. No, that won’t cut it. Not for this case.”

Vail slunk down in her seat. I’ve got no choice. Short of resigning, I have no leverage, no valid reason for staying behind.

“Karen. You probably know I’m fond of Hernandez. I knew his mother.”

After a long silence, Vail asked, “How soon?”

“How soon, what?”

“Till I have to leave. How soon?”

“Lenka is booking your flight as we speak. You leave tomorrow morning, a 6:30 connecting flight out of SFO. She’s arranging a car to pick you up at 4:00 AM. She’ll email you the flight info.”

Vail set her jaw. “Anything else, sir?”

“We’ll find him, Karen.”

“Yeah. Okay. Thanks.” She disconnected the call and let her hand drop into her lap.

“He wants you back,” Dixon said.

“I’m leaving at 4:00 AM tomorrow morning.”

“We’ll handle it, Karen. I’ll stay in touch with you. We’ll be your eyes and ears. We won’t let you down. Okay?”

Vail nodded out the windshield at no one in particular, numbly and blindly. “No. Not okay. We’ve got several hours.” She turned to Dixon, her face hard. “Before I leave, god help me, I’m gonna have some answers. We’ll find Cannon. We’ll find out what Merilynn Lugo knows. And we’ll know if César Guevara is involved in Robby’s disappearance.” She pressed a hand against her pocket, which contained the photo of Robby. “You with me on this?”

Dixon did not hesitate. “Yes.”

“Good. Then start the fucking car. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

12

Vail and Dixon’s first stop was Superior Mobile Bottling, located in a light industrial area of nearby American Canyon.

The company was a local concern that brought equipment-laden semis to wineries throughout the region to perform bottling and labeling functions. It was a cost-effective approach for many wineries, as they didn’t have to expend resources and take up prime space for production machinery used only once a year.

The facility was overseen by César Guevara, a man who supposedly served as its CFO but appeared to be much more. Vail, Dixon, and Ray Lugo had questioned him a couple of days ago. Vail had picked up on strange body language—silent communication between Lugo and Guevara. It was an observation that led the task force to aggressively investigate Guevara as the Crush Killer. The likelihood of him being their UNSUB, or unknown subject, shriveled like a desiccated grape when John Mayfield emerged as the offender.

But Lugo’s involvement with Guevara remained in Vail’s craw, though with the harried pursuit of Mayfield, it became a lost seedling among a forest of concerns.

On the drive to Superior Mobile Bottling, Vail explained their rationale for pursuing Guevara: if Lugo knew Guevara, and Lugo was involved somehow with Mayfield, there was an outside chance that Mayfield and Guevara knew one another . . . Lugo being the common link. At the very least, Guevara might know something—or might even have had something to do with Robby’s disappearance.

Dixon had remarked that there were a lot of suppositions factored into that reasoning. Vail could not dispute her point, but felt they needed to pursue the lead.

“Ray claimed he only knew Guevara when they were teenagers, working in the vineyards,” Dixon said.

“That is what he said. But sometimes I’ve got to rely on my intuition. And I sensed there was more to it than that.”

Dixon navigated out of Napa proper toward American Canyon, and the landscape changed from wineries to a more urbanized backdrop. “What Ray said. It’s not an unlikely story.”

“If it’s true, I’d bet it’s only the first chapter. Working the vineyards is probably how they met. But what happened after that? How did their relationship develop? That’s what we need to find out. That could be a key.”

Having arrived at Superior Mobile Bottling, Vail and Dixon slammed their car doors and headed toward the back of the warehouse-type structure. Bypassing the front entrance—and the interference-running administrator—they entered through the side roll-up steel door. Highly polished chrome and burgundy rigs sat stoically in their stalls in the spacious facility, like fine racehorses waiting for their turn to perform.

Mounted on the wall, at least a dozen feet off the ground, was the largest LCD high-definition television Vail had seen outside a professional sports stadium. The volume was turned down, but it was tuned to what looked like the replay of a vintage baseball game.

A medium-build Hispanic man appeared from behind the far end of one of the rigs. He wore a blue dress shirt with rolled-up sleeves and held a long screwdriver. César Guevara. He made eye contact with Vail, then looked away in disgust. “Not you again.”

Vail glanced sideways at Dixon. “Wonder why we always have that effect on people.”

“More questions?” Guevara asked.

Vail nudged Dixon with an elbow. “I told you he was smarter than he looked.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out the photograph of Robby, keeping it shielded from Guevara’s view until she was ready. She needed to watch his face carefully for the slightest of tells: a flicker, a sudden flutter of his eye, a squint, a hardening of his brow or a lift of his Adam’s apple.

Vail flipped the photo over and handed it to him. “Know this guy or seen him around? Name’s Roberto Hernandez. Also goes by Robby.”

There—a narrowing of his eyelids.

“Should I?”

Vail tilted her head and leaned forward. “I’m a federal agent and I asked a question. That usually means you give me an answer, not another question.”

Guevara held his gaze on the photo a long moment, then lifted it closer to his face and studied it.

“What is it?” Vail asked.

“Obviously,” Guevara said, “he’s someone important to you. A witness?”

“A friend and colleague. He’s gone missing. I figured you might know something about it. Do you?”

He handed back the photo to Vail. “And why would that be?”

Vail stepped forward. “See, there you go again. Answering my question with a question.”

“Is that a crime?”

Vail looked over at Dixon. “What we’re investigating is.”

“Really,” Guevara said. “And what is it you’re investigating?”

Dixon craned her neck around. “Where’s the ladies’ room?”

Guevara held Dixon’s gaze for a beat, then said, “In the front. Toward the office.” He cricked his head back over his right shoulder. Dixon walked off in that direction.

“We’re investigating the disappearance of Roberto Hernandez,” Vail said. “I thought that’s obvious, since I told you he’s missing, I’m showing you his photo and asking if you’ve seen him.”

“Yeah, well, I haven’t. Haven’t seen him and don’t know him.”

Vail stepped closer. “I don’t believe you.”

“Oh yeah?” Guevara asked. “That’s a shame.”

In one motion, Vail reached for her Glock and cleared leather in record time. Stepped forward and slammed the muzzle not so gently against Guevara’s prominent forehead, driving him back into the fender of the adjacent rig.

Guevara’s eyes bugged out—but he wasn’t afraid. Vail sensed anger, not fear.

“Are you fucking out of your mind?”

“You know what, Mr. Guevara? Yes, I am out of my mind. I’m goddamn pissed. My friend is missing and I think you had something to do with it.”

“What does it take to get through to you? I told you, I didn’t know the guy.”

Vail held the Glock in place. “We’ll see about that.”

Guevara laughed. Mocking her. “I think you should remove your gun from my face, Agent Vail. I haven’t done nothing wrong. And you’ve got no proof I have, or we wouldn’t still be standing here. Would we?”

Vail’s eyes narrowed. She felt her blood pounding in the arteries of her head. What am I doing? What can I possibly gain?

“How did you know Ray Lugo?” she asked.

Guevara’s eyes narrowed. “Past tense? Is Sergeant Lugo dead?”

Vail cursed herself silently for being so careless. At present, until they knew who all the players were, it was best everyone thought that Lugo was still alive. “Answer my question. How well do you know him?”

“What makes you think I know him?”

Vail clenched her teeth and dug the Glock’s barrel into Guevara’s forehead. “Don’t fuck with me. I’m not in the mood!”

“He’s a cop. First time I saw him was when you walked in here couple days ago.”

“Bullshit.” Vail twisted her wrist, the Glock’s metal now digging into the skin and muscle of Guevara’s face. He winced and wriggled in pain. If she didn’t draw blood, he would have a substantial bruise there by this evening.

“Why don’t you ask him?”

“I did. He said you two knew each other when you were kids, teens working on vineyards. He’s a good man. I believe him.”

“Fine. Yeah, I think that’s right. I knew he looked familiar when he walked in. I couldn’t place the face.”

“You’re such a piece of shit,” Vail said. “And you suck at lying.”

“Did you know, Agent Vail, that I have security cameras hooked up all over this warehouse?”

Vail had seen the cameras in the parking lot on her last visit, but she hadn’t noticed any inside. But it made sense. With so much invested in the rigs—and without the trucks there was no business—of course Superior would have instituted interior surveillance measures.

She stood her ground. There was nothing she could do now, in the eyes of the law—or in those of her ASAC, Thomas Gifford—that would worsen her situation. Short of pulling the trigger.

In a low voice, Vail said, “If I find that you had anything to do with Robby Hernandez’s disappearance, I will find you. Where there aren’t any security cameras. And if any harm comes to Robby, harm will come to you.” She added pressure to her weapon. Guevara squinted away the pain. “You understand me?”

“You got it all wrong, Agent Vail.” He locked eyes with her. “But I hear you. Loud and clear.”

Vail splayed open her free hand, placed it against Guevara’s chest, and pushed herself away from him. She kept the Glock in her right hand, her index finger hovering over the trigger rather than in a safety position by the outside guard.

“Everything okay in here?”

It was Dixon, walking toward her from the other end of the warehouse, down the aisle between the trailers.

Vail hadn’t taken her eyes off Guevara. “Remember what I said.”

Dixon’s eyes seemed to find Vail’s Glock in her right hand, which she now held at her side.

“Did I miss something?”

“Unfortunately, no.” Vail started to back away. ‘“Let’s go.”

But Dixon stopped suddenly, her eyes pinned to the ceiling. Vail turned. No, not the ceiling—at the wall-mounted television, where a banner reading “Special Report” was scrolling across the bottom of the screen. An attractive female reporter was standing in front of the Sheriff’s Department, motioning animatedly into the camera.

“Turn it up,” Dixon yelled at Guevara.

He squinted anger, then reached for a shelf beneath the adjacent rig and lifted an elaborate remote. A green slider appeared onscreen and wiped across its surface, the volume rising proportionately.

“ . . . refuses comment at this time. But KRSH-4 has learned that a man, who’s been identified as John Wayne Mayfield, has been arrested in the deaths of several Napa area residents. According to informed sources and witness accounts, KRSH has learned that Mayfield is a serial killer who’s been operating in and around the valley in recent weeks. Apparently, a number of individuals who have passed away under suspicious circumstances during the past several days may’ve actually been victims of John Wayne Mayfield. Attempts at obtaining verification have been unsuccessful, with the Napa County Coroner’s Office declining to confirm or deny whether or not the bodies of these victims are even in their morgue. The FBI is reportedly on the case as well, though they, too, have declined comment.

“We’ll bring you full coverage as soon as more information becomes available. But one thing is certain, Fred: the police kept the public in the dark that a dangerous killer was loose in our community. Impossible to say yet just how many lives that decision has cost the valley. And the killer? After an apparent shootout with cops, he’s lying comatose in the intensive care unit at Napa Valley Medical Center.

“Reporting live from the Napa County Sheriff’s Department, this is Stephanie Norcross.”

The news anchor appeared onscreen and began talking.

Vail and Dixon shared a concerned look and then left the building.

13

Well that sucks big time,” Dixon said.

“What are the odds that Cannon saw that?” Vail asked.

“Who the hell knows? But the bell’s been rung. It’s just a matter of time before he hears, if he hasn’t already.” They got back into the car and Dixon started driving north, toward Napa. “What happened back there with Guevara?”

“I lost control. Just enough to get his juices flowing. Hopefully he wet his pants. But I doubt it. Cool customer.” Vail looked off, alone a moment with her thoughts. “Too cool.”

“You think he’s involved.”

“I know what I saw, Roxx. When he kept looking at Ray, something was going on. It was more than recognizing a guy you knew when you were a teen.” She watched a huge Walmart-anchored shopping center flash by as they headed north. “The look he was giving Ray. It was . . . anger, maybe. Like he was pissed that Ray brought us there. As if Ray should’ve found a way to stop us from going.”

“You sure?”

“Now that I have a free minute to clear my mind and think about it, yeah. That’s what his look said.”

“Okay,” Dixon said. “Let’s go with that a moment. They knew each other. They were working together in some criminal enterprise. We already know Ray was doing something he shouldn’t have been, as part of his deal with Mayfield to leave his wife and son alone.”

“Let’s look into Guevara. Deeper this time. Let’s try to get a warrant, poke around his financials. Phone logs. Superior’s business. Look for patterns. Standard police grunt work.”

Dixon was shaking her head. “Seriously, Karen. Maybe you’d find a judge in Virginia who’d sign off on something like that. But our case is so thin you can shine a light through it. It won’t fly in California.”

“You get a good look around?”

“I poked around here and there. It’s a pretty clean facility. Not a whole lot there other than their rigs and machinery.” She leaned to the left and dug into her pocket. “Found this. In the corner, behind a stacked case of wine.” Dixon handed it to Vail.

Vail took the tissue and unraveled it. “A wine cork?”

“Yeah, but the real question is, is it real or is it synthetic?”

Vail refrained from touching it. She tilted the tissue cradled in her hands as she examined the item from all angles. “Synthetic.” She rolled it back up and handed it to Dixon. “And this helps us, how?”

“No idea. I’ll give it to Matt Aaron, see if the lab can find something.”

The vibration of her BlackBerry sent her heart racing. “Shit.” She grabbed for the phone.

“Jumpy?”

Vail grumbled. “How could you tell?” She looked down at the display. “Text from Cannon. He’s out of town, but says he would’ve loved to get together.” She turned to Dixon. “He said, ‘Maybe your next visit out here.’”

“Interesting. Is he really out of town?”

“We’re getting sloppy. After what we learned about texting and cells, we should’ve had a tracer put on his line before I made that call.”

“But we’ve still got these little problems called ‘probable cause’ and ‘a warrant.’”

Vail shook her head and looked off at the countryside, which had once again transformed into the Napa Valley she had come to know: plots of well-tended vineyards merging with rolling hills and mountains in the distance. Wineries on both sides of the road.

Vail’s phone buzzed again. “Ian Wirth. Returning my call.”

“Maybe we’ll get some answers about Herndon.”

Vail brought the handset to her ear. “Ian, this is Karen Vail. We . . . yes, we saw the news. And yes, that’s the guy. So you can rest a little easier now. But what I called you about was information . . . No, a related case. Are you available to meet for a bit?” Vail rotated the phone away from her mouth and faced Dixon. “Taylor’s? Know where it is?”

“Tell him we can be there in twenty-ish.”

Vail relayed the info, thanked him, then hung up.

“Taylor’s is a straight shot down 29, in St. Helena,” Dixon said. “Owner renovated an old, dilapidated hamburger stand and started serving Ahi and halibut burgers. And, of course, for the health challenged, good old artery-clogging red meat and mouth-watering shakes.”

“Sounds like a place I should visit before I leave town.” Which isn’t that far off now. The mere thought made her curl her fingers into a fist. “Are we wasting our time with this, Roxx? I mean, I’ve gotta find Robby. And it’s down to hours now.”

“It’s not down to hours, not while I’m on the case. I’ll keep working it. Remember, I used to be a detective. I know how to do this shit.”

Vail tried to smile, but the thought of leaving town before finding answers brought tears to her eyes. She turned toward the window and let her forehead rest against the glass.

14

Taylor’s Automatic Refresher was as Dixon had described it. A half dozen red picnic tables were arranged in front of the hamburger joint, where a long line of customers stood staring at the menu or chatting among themselves.

Dixon parked and found Ian Wirth near the front of the line. They ordered, then grabbed a table.

Wirth set down his glass of iced tea. “So you found the killer. The guy who murdered Victoria Cameron, Isaac Jenkins—”

“John Mayfield,” Vail said. “The Crush Killer. Now you see why we couldn’t be straight with you about what was going on.” Vail and Dixon had told Wirth the causes of death had been strokes, but Wirth’s father had been a cop, so he was wise to their subterfuge. They admitted there was more to what was going on, and advised him to be careful.

“The victims’ names haven’t been released yet,” Dixon said, “so keep that info to yourself till we can deal with the families.”

“Of course.” He tilted his head. “But you didn’t ask me to lunch to talk about John Mayfield.”

“No,” Dixon said. “We need some information on setting up a winery.”

Wirth glanced from Dixon to Vail. “You two thinking of going into business?”

Dixon laughed. “No. And I can’t say any more because—”

“Because it’s an ongoing investigation,” Wirth said. “Why do I get the feeling this Crush Killer thing isn’t quite over?”

Vail sighed. “You know we can’t say any more. But as to Investigator Dixon’s question . . . ”

“Obviously I know a fair amount about it. What’d you want to know?”

Their food was ready: Ahi tuna burger, rare, with ginger wasabi mayo for Dixon; Wisconsin sourdough burger, with bacon, mushrooms, and cheddar for Vail; marinated grilled mahi mahi in corn tortillas for Wirth.

And a double rainbow chocolate shake for Vail. Hell with the calories. I need the chocolate. No, I need Robby. The chocolate will have to do for now.

Dixon lifted the bun and examined her burger, seemed pleased, and continued. “Ever hear of a start-up, Herndon Vineyards?”

Wirth held his tortilla with both hands. “No. Should I?”

“Not necessarily,” Vail said. “But it would’ve made our jobs a little easier. So here’s the deal. We want to find the owners of this start-up. They’re supposedly due to release their first wine in a couple years. Wouldn’t they have to file paperwork to get approval to operate a winery?”

“Your easiest call might be to the valley appellation organization, in this case the Napa Valley Vintners, who regularly announce new winery members. That’s assuming that this new winery decided to join the organization. It’s not mandatory. So if you hit a goose egg there, you have to go the more bureaucratic route. Operating a winery is regulated by the TTB, the Alcohol and Tobacco Tax and Trade Bureau. For some reason, it’s part of the Treasury Department. As you can imagine, it’s the government, so there’s a ton of paperwork to fill out and regulations to follow.” He leaned back a bit and looked at Vail. “No offense.” Wirth bit into his tortilla.

“None taken.”

“Herndon Vineyards,” Wirth said, “would have to go through the federal application process.”

Dixon brought a napkin to her lips. “Just a guess, here. But unlike the Napa Valley Vintners, the federal application part is mandatory.”

Wirth grinned. “That’d be correct. And because of that, they’ll know everything there is to know about the owners. But you’d also need the state’s approval. ABC—Alcohol and Beverage Control. Heck, even if you just change or modify the name of your winery, you have to file new applications. You’re not officially a winery until they approve your apps and say you are.”

“When do you have to file the paperwork?” Vail asked, then sucked deeply on her shake. The dark chocolate high washed over her.

Wirth tilted his head in thought. “That’s tricky to answer. The owners could purchase land and get everything drawn up and ready to go. Architectural plans, engineering studies, and so on. But there’s a gray area. I spoke to the TTB once and they told me I was supposed to have the applications in place before I purchased equipment. But I wasn’t about to spend two hundred grand until I knew I had a viable and approved winery. So I called back, got someone different, and received a totally different answer. A colleague of mind said the same thing. Different people, different information.”

Dixon sighed. “Nothing’s ever simple, is it?”

Vail vacuumed out the last of her shake with a sucking sound. “Let’s take one step at a time. See if we can get something from the Napa Valley Vintners. If not, Plan B is TTB. That fails, Plan C would be ABC.”

Dixon smirked. “You trying to be funny?”

“I’m not in a laughing mood,” Vail said.

Wirth lifted his napkin and wiped his hands. “Anything else I can answer for you?”

Vail rose. “If there is, we’ll give you a call. Thanks for lunch. Mind if we run? We’re up against a deadline here.”

“Not at all.” Wirth stood and shook both their hands. “Good luck.”

As Vail headed back to the car, she thought, A little good luck sure wouldn’t hurt.

15

He did not have long. For twenty minutes, he had been driving around searching for the perfect setting. If he was going to make the splash that he felt he deserved, which meant preventing the police from containing news of his kills, he had to place the body where it would be seen by the average passerby. After much thought, he settled on just the spot.

The body in the trunk would stiffen, that much he was sure of. It would make his task that much more difficult, if not impossible. How long until rigor mortis set in? He wasn’t sure. Best to get there quickly, do his deed, and leave.

Zipping along Silverado Trail, he passed a string of wineries—Clos Du Val and Hagafen on the left, Luna on the right—before the road dead-ended at Trancas Street. He swung right and followed it over the Napa River, then approached the traffic light and hung a quick turn onto Soscol Avenue, barely beating the yellow.

But apparently the Napa police officer behind him observed otherwise.

He glanced at the flashing lights in his rearview mirror, then considered his options. He had a fresh corpse in his trunk, and he had murdered a cop—though he doubted they’d already found her body. It couldn’t be about that, not yet.

Floor it? That was one option—try to evade capture. But if he acted normal and polite, there’d be no reason for the cop to search his vehicle. All he had done wrong, in the eyes of the law, was run a red light. Marginally, at that.

He turned right into the adjacent parking lot and brought the old Mercedes diesel to a stop. The cruiser pulled in behind him. He watched as the cop shoved the gear shift into park, then brought the radio to his mouth.

Good thing he hadn’t driven the minivan. By now it could be listed as stolen—and besides, there was no place to hide a dead body.

He looked up. The cop was still chattering away on his radio. He tapped his fingers on the dash. Come on, get out and move this along. Ask for license and registration and send him on his way. Simple. Easy. He’d pay the fine without dispute. He had an important appointment to keep, before the body in his trunk went stiff.

He waited, took a few deep breaths to calm his escalating nerves, and watched as the cop finally—finally—got out of his car and headed toward his window. He rolled it down, stuck his head out, and grinned broadly.

“Morning, sir. Any idea what you did wrong back there?”

Absolutely, he did. Why play games? “I assume I didn’t quite make it through that yellow in time.”

“Correct. License and registration, please.”

He handed them over. “Sorry, officer. Guess I wasn’t paying attention. Won’t happen again.”

“Napa 2X1,” the man said into his shoulder-clipped radio.

The dispatch operator responded: “2X1, go ahead.”

The officer read the pertinent information into the handset. He received a response of no wants or warrants. “I’m going to give you a citation,” the cop said. “Be more careful when you approach an intersection, and pay attention to those yellow lights. Yellow means slow . . . ”

He smiled and nodded. Just a polite citizen with a dead body in his trunk who made an honest mistake and committed a moving violation. “Yes, sir. Will do, sir.” He sat back and waited while the officer completed the ticket. Wiped a collection of sweat beads from his forehead.

The cop walked back to his vehicle and retrieved something, then stopped. He was staring at the trunk.

Oh, shit. What could he possibly see? A smear of blood? A sliver of pink material hanging out that got snagged by the lock?

He started running scenarios by in his mind. He could hit the cop hard and fast, then leave and make as many turns as possible. But his license plate had already been called in. That was a problem. Not to mention his unwilling passenger. “Assault” would instantly turn to “murder.” No matter how he parsed it, there was no good excuse for a violently executed woman to be crammed into his trunk.

As he began to perspire profusely, the officer returned to the window. Here it was. If the cop asked him to open the trunk, he would have to take his chances. Clobber him, then leave town.

“Here you go,” the officer said. “Your left rear brake lens is cracked, but the light’s working. Keep an eye on it. Water gets in, it’ll short out.”

“I’ll get right on it.”

The cop squinted and twisted his body to face him. “You all right, sir?”

He faked a hearty laugh. Too hearty? “Just hot, is all. I’m also late for an important appointment.”

The officer eyed him a moment, then nodded and handed him the ticket. “Obey the speed limit. And watch the traffic signals.”

“Yes sir. Thank you, sir.” He watched in his rearview as the cop headed back toward his cruiser, then poked his head out the window. “Have a great day!”

He didn’t know about the officer, but his own prospects for doing just that had improved immeasurably.

16

For Karen Vail, good luck was not on the horizon. Before they had gotten out of the parking lot, Dixon’s phone buzzed. She hit the hands-free Bluetooth speaker and answered. It was Brix.

“You’re not going to fucking believe this,” he said.

“Uh-oh,” Dixon said. “I’m not sure I like the sound of that.”

“Trust me. You won’t. There’s a new vic.”

Vail shot forward in her seat. “What?”

“Maybe the vic’s from yesterday,” Dixon said, “before we grabbed up Mayfield.”

“My first thought, too,” Brix said. “But no. According to first-on-scene, she’s fresh.”

Dixon looked over at Vail, who was staring out the windshield. Thinking . . . what the fuck is going on? How could this be?

“Sounds like the same MO,” Brix said. “I mean, same ritual. Gotta be a copycat, right?”

I’ll be the judge of that, thank you very much. Vail’s phone buzzed. She absentmindedly pulled it from her belt and glanced at the display. “Is this the address?” she asked Brix.

“I had Mann text it to everyone.”

Vail rotated her phone to face Dixon, who, after digesting the location, turned the car around and headed back down 29, toward downtown Napa.

Unfortunately, even Vail knew the address.

DIXON PULLED TO A HALT at a makeshift barrier created by haphazardly parked Sheriff’s Department cruisers blocking Third Street. Deputies and Napa Police Department officers milled about. A news van sat skewed at the end of Brown Street, where it intersected with Third: at the Hall of Justice complex, where the courthouse and the Napa jail were located.

Dixon parked behind Brix’s vehicle, and she and Vail made their way toward the clot of detectives surrounding a quad area nestled between three large gray buildings. As Vail picked her way through the crowd of law enforcement bodies, she caught sight of Matthew Aaron holding a digital SLR up to his face. The burst from his flash illuminated the area of interest: a black square water fountain that sat atop two concrete rectangles.

And seated on the lower step was a woman, posed in such a way to make it appear as if she was reclining against the stone, her right leg extended in casual repose. Except that a trail of diluted blood cascaded down from her hands. A set of handcuffs dangled from her left wrist and her head was canted back, hanging at an unnatural left-leaning kink. The water from the fountain was lightly spraying her head, which now featured stringy-wet brunet hair.

“Can someone shut that fountain down?” Dixon asked.

Brix pushed his way toward her. “Working on it. Called Public Works. They’re en route.”

Vail stepped closer, to within a couple feet of Matt Aaron. “Was she—is her trachea crushed?”

“Haven’t gotten to that yet, but my money’s on it.”

“I’m not interested in betting,” Vail said. “Just give me goddamn answers.”

Aaron hardened his jaw, then said, “There’s bruising over the trachea. It looks like it’s been crushed. But until I can get my hands on her, I can’t really answer your question.” He pointed at the body. “That said, the toenail’s missing. Right second toe. And her wrist has a transverse gash.”

Emerging from the far end of the quad was Austin Mann and Burt Gordon. And a haggard Sheriff Stan Owens. Brix motioned them to an area near the twin flagpoles, a few feet from the jail building’s facade. Owens remained at Aaron’s side—something the forensic technician probably wasn’t too pleased with, but would no doubt keep to himself.

The remainder of the task force gathered between the flag poles and stood there staring at one another until Brix spoke up. “Okay, what the fuck are we dealing with here?” He looked at Vail. “Karen—did we or did we not arrest the Crush Killer?”

Vail brushed a lock of red hair behind her ear. “John Mayfield’s the Crush Killer. We didn’t release any details of the murders to the press, so the only people who know what Mayfield did with the bodies would be Mayfield himself—which isn’t possible because of the timing—or he had a partner. That wasn’t evident at any of the crime scenes, so if I had to guess—and that’s what I’m doing here—he was mentoring someone, teaching him how to kill. Someone with a similar personality. Narcissistic.”

“James Cannon,” Brix said. “Mayfield’s bodybuilding buddy.”

“That’d be the first place I’d look.”

“Cannon’s out of town,” Dixon said.

“Says who? Cannon?” Vail turned to the others. “I called him a little while ago and left a voice mail, told him I was sorry for turning him away, that I wanted to grab lunch or dinner with him. He texted back and said he’d love to, but he’s out of town.”

“Which could be bullshit,” Brix said.

Vail kicked at a dead branch by her feet. “If he’s our guy, yeah, it’d be bullshit.”

Gordon shifted his thick legs. “Do you think your call tipped him off?”

“Anything’s possible,” Vail said. “But if he’s a narcissist, he probably wouldn’t permit himself to think we’re on to him so soon. He thinks he’s smarter than us, and my message was a little suggestive of some sexual rendezvous, which would play right into his mind-set. I think we’re okay.” She thought a moment, then added: “If this body is fresh—and it looks like she is—then clearly, he’s comfortable killing. And he’s comfortable bringing the body to a public place.”

“What do we know about the vic?” Austin Mann asked.

“Not a whole lot,” Brix said. “We didn’t want to disturb the scene till we got that water shut.” Thirty feet away, as if on cue, the fountain stopped bubbling. Heads turned. Aaron moved toward the woman’s body.

“We should have a few answers soon,” Burt Gordon said.

“Why here?” Brix asked. “Why did he dump the body here?”

“He didn’t just dump the body,” Vail said. “He posed her. And he placed her facing the street. Posing is a very different behavior. The Crush Killer left his victims out in the open where they’d be found, for sure. But this woman wasn’t just left in public. She was placed at the Hall of Justice, right in the front, posed. For all to see. You can’t get much more insulting to law enforcement, much more ‘in your face’ than leaving her right on our doorstep. He’s sending a message.”

Mann shifted his gaze beyond Vail to the area around the fountain. “And that message would be?”

“That he’s better than us, smarter than us. That he can kill this woman right in front of the Hall of Justice and get away with it. That he’s above the law, that we can’t stop him. That he’s in control.”

“You talked to this James Cannon,” Gordon said. “Based on what you saw, is he capable of doing that?” He gestured with his chin toward the victim. “I mean, is it possible?”

Vail and Dixon shared a look.

Dixon answered. “Yeah, I think so. His demeanor when Karen rejected him. He took it personally, almost as if he was so far superior to any other man—how could she reject him?” She held up a hand. “Now, that’s looking at it in hindsight, maybe with a slightly skewed view. But you’re asking if it’s possible. I think it is.”

“I agree,” Vail said. “But it could also be more complex. By doing the kill this way, he could be saying, ‘I’m my own guy. I’m my own killer. So I’m going to do things differently.”

Mann said, “Differently meaning the posing, the location of the victim.”

“Yeah.”

“What about the handcuffs?” Mann asked. “Gotta be some meaning behind that.”

“For sure. It’s part of the message. He left her at a police station.”

“Nothing deeper?” Dixon asked.

“Who can say at this point? Is it a taunt? That we’re prisoners to his reign of terror? Yeah, okay. At this point, it’s just a guess.” Vail pulled her Glock, stepped forward, and carefully lifted the cuffs with the tip of the barrel.

“What are you doing?” Gordon asked.

“All cuffs have serial numbers, manufacturers and model numbers, right?” Vail leaned in close. “Serial number should be just below the key post. Four-five-three-five-one-one.”

Brix typed the numbers into his phone.

“Model number’s a seven hundred. Peerless.”

Brix looked up. “Peerless. That’s what we use. The Sheriff ’s Department.”

“That’s what most law enforcement agencies use,” Mann said.

“You can buy a set on Amazon for thirty bucks,” said Aaron, who’d moved beside Vail to look at the cuffs. “I wouldn’t make too big a deal out of it. Security guards use ’em, too.”

Vail frowned. “Track the serial number. You keep records at the department, right? Who gets which set of cuffs?”

“Yeah,” Brix said. “I can check it against the database, see who they belong to. If it’s one of ours. But we gotta do it manually. It’s not computerized. We can also ask around, see if anyone’s lost a pair.”

“Keep it low-key,” Dixon said. “In case.”

“In case the killer’s a cop?” Gordon asked.

Dixon rocked back on her heels a bit. “I’m just saying. Let’s be smart about this. In case it is, yeah. I doubt it, but you can’t unring a bell.”

“I don’t mean to be all doom and gloom,” Mann said. “But could these be Robby’s? Did he bring a set with him?”

“On vacation?” Vail asked. She shrugged. “No idea. I didn’t see any. But I just don’t know.”

“Before we go down that path,” Brix said, “let’s first see if the serial number matches any used by LEOs in the area. If you really think it’s possible, call Robby’s PD and see if they keep records on which detectives get which cuffs. Or, we can check with Peerless and see if they know which organization or retailer they shipped that set to.”

“Good luck with that,” Mann said under his breath.

“Let’s also get an ID on the vic. Find out the usual stuff. Who she is, who’d want her dead. Who had access to this quad.” Brix swiveled his body and looked around. “Which is pretty much anybody. Security cameras?”

“I’ll look into it,” Gordon said. “I doubt they’re aimed at the street. That fountain is damn close to the sidewalk. The cameras, if there are any, would be turned in toward the building. I think this guy knew what he was doing.”

“But,” Dixon said, “how do you kill a woman out in the open, during the day, in a public area, and have no one see it?”

Vail shook her head. “You kill her offsite. Crush her trachea, if that’s what he did, then bring her here. Get her out of your van in such a way that it looks like you’re walking arm in arm. If it is Cannon, he’s easily strong enough to support her weight and carry her alongside him for fifty to a hundred feet. He sets her down beside him at the fountain, makes two quick slits to her wrists, and then he walks away and melts into the street and cars. The blood drains slowly due to gravity. Some washes away in the fountain.” She examined everyone’s face. “It can be done.”

Dixon rubbed both hands across her eyes. “All right. So where are we?”

“We ran Mayfield’s home phone LUDs,” Brix said, referring to the local usage detail printout of calls made and received. “And we got a log of his mobile calls. His cell was one provided by his employer and only had work-related calls to and from the county mosquito and pest control abatement division. And a few to wineries and public buildings. We cross-checked, and they all corresponded to jobs he had—places where he sprayed and whatever the hell else he did with his time when he wasn’t killing people.”

Vail’s attention was split between Brix and what Matt Aaron was doing with the victim’s body. “And his home phone?”

“Nothing popped out at us. We were still sifting through it when this call came in. We’re going further and further back in case he wasn’t as careful early on.”

“Any calls to James Cannon?”

Brix pulled his phone and began pressing buttons. “We’ve still got some unidentified numbers to track down, a few unlisteds. We should have an answer soon on that. And we should’ve also heard back from NSIB on whether they got a home address from the wireless carrier. I’m gonna see if I can scare them up right now.”

“We spoke with Ian Wirth,” Dixon said. “He gave us a rundown on the application process for starting a winery.”

“My brother texted me on the way over here minutes ago. He’s done with his meeting and should be calling me soon. Get anything from Wirth?”

Dixon filled them in on what she and Vail had learned.

“After I follow up with NSIB,” Brix said, “I’ll get someone started on calling the TTB and ABC ASAP, just in case the vintners organization is a dead end. If my brother gets us anything we don’t already know, I’ll give you a shout.” He pressed SEND on his phone.

Vail’s BlackBerry vibrated: a Virginia number, one she recognized as Detective Paul Bledsoe’s. “I’ve gotta take this,” she said, then moved off toward the Hall of Justice entrance, beneath the address sign that read “1125” in large silver decals.

“Hey,” Bledsoe said. “I just wanted to check in with you. You get anywhere?”

“Treading water. You?”

“I got Hernandez’s DNA sample over to the FBI lab and I’ve also got a sample coming your way, to the Sheriff’s Department.”

“Very good, thanks. And—you think you can keep your guy on Jonathan till I get home? I—this Mayfield thing may not be over. And it could be related to Robby’s disappearance.”

Bledsoe hesitated. “I think I can swing it. But are you sure? You think Mayfield had an accomplice?”

“Or a ‘student.’ I’m not sure, but it’s possible. And until we can rule it out, and until we find out what happened to Robby, I can’t take the chance it’s personal.”

“I’m working on something on my end,” Bledsoe said. “A guy I know, someone who owes me.”

In the background, Dixon continued her conversation with Gordon and Mann. Vail plugged her left ear to mute their discussion. “Who is this guy and what do you think he’s going to be able to do for us?”

“Name’s Hector DeSantos. I met him on another case a couple years ago; this guy’s involved with a bunch of people who’ve got access to information no one else has. I think he’s some kind of spook. But if there’s info tucked away somewhere in a police or hospital database that can give us a clue as to Robby’s whereabouts, DeSantos will be able to find it.”

“Awfully nice of him to help us out.”

“I haven’t asked him yet,” Bledsoe said. “But he owes me, and if he’s stateside, I think we’re good. I’ll see if I can set something up for when you get back.”

“I’m on a flight tonight—actually, I guess it’s tomorrow morning. Anything changes, I’ll let you know. And Bledsoe . . . thanks again. For everything.” She hung up and rejoined the group.

Brix said, “Wireless carrier had the same Soscol address. They emailed his bills, which were paid by direct debit to his credit card. NSIB’s now trying to get the address from the credit card company.”

“Without a warrant?” Gordon asked.

A forensic technician handed Brix a bag containing the handcuffs. “Maybe we’ll get lucky,” Brix said. “Be surprised what customer service reps will tell you.”

“It’s not against the law to ask for information,” Dixon said. “It’s not even illegal to lie about who you are—as long as you don’t say you’re James Cannon.”

“We’ll see what we can get,” Brix said.

Dixon took Vail’s elbow and led her toward the street. “That call. Good news or bad?”

“My friend, Bledsoe. He wants me to meet with someone back home who might be able to dig up info on Robby.”

Dixon unlocked her car doors with the remote. “Take any help we can get.”

“Where we headed?” Vail asked.

“Mayfield’s place. That’s one warrant we didn’t have a problem getting.”

17

Vail and Dixon arrived at John Mayfield’s house, a small Victorian-style two-story with a compact footprint on a postage stamp lot. The grounds were immaculately cared for, and the shingle siding seemed to be the recipient of a recent coat of brick red paint.

Parked out front, neighborhood cars. A large hockey net with a noticeable rip in the polyester mesh, shoved up against the curb.

Vail and Dixon were the first to arrive. They walked up to the front door, tried the knob, and found it locked. “Kick it, pick it, or call for a battering ram,” Vail said.

Dixon slid sideways and slammed her left foot against the jamb, just below the lock. It burst open with a splintering pop. “Much more satisfying that way.”

“Can’t argue with that.”

They moved inside the quiet house. Whenever Vail entered an offender’s residence, a strange feeling washed over her. All the evil this killer conjured was conceived here. Like the behaviors the killer left at his crime scenes, his home was a diary of sorts: unedited, the raw idiosyncrasies and habits of human nature lay bare before her. The way he folds his towels, his laundry, his clothing. Are his shirts on hangers in closets? Neatly arranged on shelves? Are there dishes in the sink? Does he hoard newspapers, magazines, odd trinkets?

Everything she saw before her was like words in a novel; each room a chapter. Overall, that book told an important story about this offender. Who he was, at the core of his daily existence, unfiltered. Because he never expected to get caught, he had no reason to hide who he was.

And Vail was not disappointed. She had anticipated a neat, orderly living environment. Possessions well cared for. Trophies and framed certificates of his accomplishments. And nothing to suggest anyone else was responsible for, or had contributed to, his achievements.

After walking through the living room—dominated by an intricately carved walnut table with matching formal chairs—she moved into the hall and then the family room.

Dixon called out to her from the den. On a couch in the corner was a box containing an unopened pay-as-you-go phone. “No surprise there. I’m sure the one he’d been using is here somewhere, if he didn’t already dump it before we grabbed him up.”

“Even better,” Vail said, heading toward a desk along the far wall. “His PC.”

Dixon joined her by the window, which looked out at the mountains.

“Does the Sheriff’s Department have a cyber crime division that can go through the hard drive?”

“Yeah, but I don’t know if it’s as good as what you’ve got at the Bureau. You want to wait, or do you want to see if there’s anything on here about Robby?”

All questions should be that easy. Vail turned on the monitor and flicked the keyboard. The computer fan whirled to life and the screen read, “Windows is resuming.” She looked over at Dixon. “It was on standby.”

“How’d you know?”

“Narcissists tend to leave their computers asleep so they can get right to work when inspiration stirs them.”

Dixon squinted. “Really?”

“No,” Vail said. “I just made that up.”

Dixon suppressed a smile, then nodded at the desktop, which had loaded.

“But narcissists think they’re immune to the consequences of their own actions, functioning on almost a delusional sense of omnipotence.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning,” Vail said, “I didn’t think his PC would be password protected. He never expected to be outsmarted. To be caught.” She sat down and moved aside a bottle of half-drunk Cakebread Cabernet. Moused over to the Computer icon and opened Windows Explorer. The familiar file tree appeared and she scrolled to Documents.

“You think there’ll be anything incriminating on here?”

Vail leaned closer to the screen. “Count on it. Because he didn’t expect us to catch him, there’s no need to take safeguards or use deceptive techniques to protect his information from the police. Besides, if it got to the point where the cops were doing what we’re doing and poking around his house and computer, he’d be in deep shit. In which case he wouldn’t care what we found.”

Vail used the document preview feature in Explorer to quickly scan the files without opening them. She pointed at the screen. “Here’s the ad he sent to the Press.” Then she remembered reading something in an FBI forensics bulletin. “COFEE.”

Dixon looked at her. “Now?”

“No, no, not the drink. COFEE’s an acronym for a forensic tool Microsoft developed for cops, so they can copy evidence off a computer before it’s turned off and moved to the lab. Once a computer’s shut down, this kind of data vanishes.”

“You have any idea how to use it?”

“It’s just a thumb drive. You plug it in and a few minutes later, it’s captured all the data. Aaron’s on his way over; he can do it and send it to the FBI’s cyber crime unit.” She gestured at the PC. “Who knows what’s on here? What websites he’s visited, who he’s been communicating with. From what I remember reading, some of that stuff is stored in temporary files. We don’t want to lose it.”

“Fine. I’ll make sure he has this COFEE thing with him.” Dixon pulled her phone, walked outside, and called Matt Aaron while Vail continued to poke around John Mayfield’s files.

Dixon returned a minute later. “He’ll be here in a few minutes. But he doesn’t have that COFEE device. He knows about it, but he never got one.”

“You’re shitting me. They’re free.”

“He said to leave the PC on. He’s gonna make a call and see if he can have one overnighted.” Dixon pointed at the screen. “Check his email. He use Outlook or web-based email?”

Vail looked down at the taskbar and saw the Outlook shortcut. Clicked and watched as the logo splashed across the screen while the software loaded. It immediately began downloading Mayfield’s mail. While it negotiated with the incoming server, Vail went to the Sent items folder, where she found a couple of the messages he had sent them. Seeing them again, and sitting at the keyboard he used to send them, sent a shudder through her shoulders.

“You okay?” Dixon asked.

“Now there’s a loaded question if there ever was one.” Vail chuckled. “Believe me, you don’t want an honest answer.” She clicked on the Start button, then typed “Napa Crush Killer” in the search field. It was the title of the first PowerPoint slide in the gruesome document Mayfield had sent the task force. A few seconds later, a series of results appeared. The one she was interested in—the PowerPoint document—was at the top of the list. Having received what was, in her mind, the ultimate confirmation, Vail rose from her chair and said, “I’ve seen enough. The techs can do the rest.”

They walked through the house, pausing long enough in each room for Vail to take it all in, the contents, their layout, and orientation. Last stop: the two-car garage. The first thing Vail noted when she pulled open the door was a potpourri of grease, oil, and gasoline odors hanging on the stale air.

Dominating the occupied bay was an older, highly polished Audi. She knelt down to examine the immaculately swept gray floor, which featured painted lines indicating where the car was to be parked. And the wheels were lined up exactly where they were supposed to be. “Interesting.”

Vail rose from her crouch. Against the far wall, across the empty parking slot, stood a six-foot-tall red Craftsman tool chest, the compartments all neatly closed. She walked over beside Dixon, who was pulling open each of the drawers. An assortment of tools and hardware stared back at them. Nothing suspicious or helpful.

In the empty car bay, atop a generous workout pad, was a barbell set and bench, cradled in V-brackets. A Platypus water bottle lay on the floor beside the weight stack. Vail stood there staring at the awkwardly shaped plastic container. “I’ve seen that recently.”

“The water bottle?”

Vail nodded. “Yeah.”

“Okay. So what?”

Vail hiked a shoulder. “So nothing.” She gave a final swing around the garage.

Car doors slammed on the other side of the roll-up door. Vail pressed the wall-mounted opener and the sectional crept upward with silent precision. Standing there was CSI Matt Aaron, booties on his feet and tool kit in hand, with Brix and Owens bringing up the rear.

“Glad to see you two were totally fine with contaminating my crime scene.”

“We’ve still got someone out there who could be in distress,” Dixon said. “Waiting around didn’t seem to be in his best interests. Not with another killer out there, who could be related to Mayfield in some way.”

“We’ll have that COFEE device tomorrow morning,” Aaron said. “We can post an officer outside the house to make sure no one touches the PC before it gets here.” He set down his kit against the wall. “Find anything that’ll help you locate your missing guy?”

“No,” Vail said. “Doesn’t look like it.”

“Shame.”

“You know what,” Vail said, advancing on him, before Dixon grabbed her arm with an iron grip.

“Let it go,” Dixon said. “We’ve got more important things to deal with.”

Vail shook off Dixon’s hand, then spun and headed past Brix, out of the garage. No, we didn’t find anything that’ll help us find our missing guy. She craned her neck skyward. A passing cumulus cloud stared at her as it blew by. I leave in a matter of hours and we’re no closer to finding Robby than we were before.

Vail leaned her back against the Ford’s door and faced the house.

That’s when she saw it.

A leather jacket. She pushed off the car and walked forward, eyes focused on the coat. It hung on a hook on the wall behind the Audi, innocently draped across a wood hanger. She stopped in front of it and stared at it. A shiver ran the length of her spine.

“Roxx,” she called out, unevenly. “I may’ve just found Robby’s jacket.”

18

Dixon and Matt Aaron joined Vail a moment later.

“This?” Aaron asked, nodding at the lone coat hanging from the hook.

“No,” Vail said, “the other jacket.”

Aaron set his jaw and gave Vail an icy stare. The two had established a relationship as smooth as grit-studded sandpaper, and it was apparently destined to remain that way.

Aaron broke the standoff by retrieving his fingerprint kit, then applying dust.

“Full workup,” Dixon said. “DNA, too. We’ve got a sample of Detective Hernandez’s DNA en route.” She waited a second for Aaron to reply, got nothing, and continued. “Give me a buzz as soon as you know something. Most important thing is, does this jacket belong to him, or not?”

Aaron dropped his hands to his sides and turned to Dixon. “I’m plugged into what’s going on, Ms. Dixon.” He moved his fingerprint brush back to the jacket. “You can go. I’ll let you know what I find.”

“You got a TOD on the Hall of Justice vic?”

Without looking at Dixon, he said, “Prelim estimate is approximately 1:00 PM. Give or take an hour.”

Dixon turned away from Aaron. “If she was dropped there, that means she was killed before he arrived at the Hall of Justice complex, right?”

Vail folded her arms across her chest. “Right.”

“So let’s say she was there for what, ten minutes before someone saw her and reported it? Fifteen?”

“Okay, sure.”

“That means if we’re thinking she was killed between noon and 1:00, and we discovered her at 1:20, she was probably killed about thirty minutes from downtown Napa.”

Vail nodded slowly. “You’re establishing the radius of the UNSUB’s kill zone.”

Dixon shrugged. “Makes sense. We could map it out and see if we can focus our efforts. But give or take thirty minutes in any direction is a lot of real estate.”

“Not as much as not having the radius.”

“True,” Dixon said.

Brix burst through the door leading into the garage from the house, holding up his cell phone. “Roxx—TTB came through. We got a twenty on Herndon Vineyards.”

19

The needle on Dixon’s speedometer zipped past 65—in a 50 zone. After Vail had stuck the light cube atop the car, they were silent, intent on what they might find—and what they would ask if, and when, they found James Cannon.

Leaving Owens at Mayfield’s house, Brix was following behind them in his own vehicle. As they zigged around slower-moving tourists, Dixon took a call from Gordon and Mann. NSIB had secured Cannon’s current home address—and four investigators were en route to meet Gordon and Mann as backup.

Before they hit the frenzy of their pending arrival at Herndon, Vail’s thoughts turned to what they had found at Mayfield’s place. “The jacket. Robby bought it a few days ago.”

Dixon slowed behind a limousine. “You sure it’s his?”

Vail worked it through her mind. Closed her eyes and tried to remember him walking into Bistro Jeanty, the restaurant where they’d eaten only a couple nights ago. “Yes.” She shook her head. “No.” She sighed. “He bought a jacket just like it when he went to the outlets to buy us new clothing after the fire. I only really saw it once. And Robby and Mayfield could be about the same size.” She bent her head forward and massaged her temples. “I don’t know.”

“Hopefully Aaron will be—”

Vail snapped her fingers and sat up straight. “Wait a minute. That funky water bottle. The one in the garage. The Platypus. I’d seen it recently but couldn’t remember where.” She turned to Dixon. “At the gym. Fit1. Cannon had it when we were there working out. What’s it doing in Mayfield’s garage?”

Dixon zipped around the limousine and moved back into her lane. “They’re big and hold a lot of water. Mayfield and Cannon were friends, they worked out together, maybe they both had one.”

“But Mayfield didn’t have one. At least not both times we saw him at the gym. What if the one at Mayfield’s house is Cannon’s, and they’re more than just workout partners. They’re killing partners. Or mentor/mentee.”

“Whoa. No offense, Karen, but you’re grasping—”

“At straws. Yeah. I’m scooping up the whole pile. I’m desperate.”

“I think we’re close to getting some answers. We’ll be there in a few minutes.”

Vail started bouncing her knee. “A few minutes” wasn’t soon enough.

20

Herndon Vineyards was located in the hills above St. Helena, in the Spring Mountain district. Tucked away off a winding, ascending road that rose two thousand feet above the valley floor, the area was known for its rich volcanic soils that made it particularly favorable for producing exceptional Cabernet Sauvignon.

Dixon stopped the car a dozen feet before a metal security gate fitted with an electronic keypad-speaker device. Brix pulled in behind them. He raised them on the radio.

“I don’t think a straightforward approach would be a good idea,” Brix said.

“Agreed,” Dixon said. “Let’s go in as inspectors with TTB, to do a routine check of the facility. You should take the lead. If Cannon’s in there, he’s seen us; he knows who we are.”

“Copy that. Pull back.”

Dixon moved her car aside and parked; then she and Vail got into Brix’s Crown Victoria. Brix maneuvered beside the intercom and pressed the button, then explained the purpose of the visit. There was some hesitation, followed by a “Let me check” comment.

“And we’ll need to speak briefly with your wine maker. Is he in?”

Another pause. Then, “Yes. He’s here today.” The metal gate swung inward.

“You want me to go in, scout the place, feel out the owners?” Brix asked as he drove down the eucalyptus tree-lined, hard-packed gravel road that curved gently up a steady incline. Young, well-tended grapevines rose and fell on the rolling land.

“No,” Vail said without hesitation. “We go in strong. Roxx and I know what the guy looks like. I say one of us hangs back. That should be you, Roxx, since you’re the most mobile of the two of us. Brix, you should fast-badge them and ask a lot of wine-related questions TTB inspectors might ask, to keep them off balance. I’ll stay right outside until I can be sure Cannon’s not there—or until you’ve engaged him.”

Vail swung her head in all directions to take in the landscape. Atop the mountainous countryside, redwoods in the distance framed the symmetrically planted vines that undulated with the terrain. It’s gorgeous around here. She turned back. “Looks like there’s only one road in or out. If he goes on foot, it’d have to be through the vineyards. Easy to see a huge guy running through small grapevines. Good?”

Dixon seemed to be mulling Vail’s comment.

Brix slowed the car to 5 miles per hour as he approached the building. “How sure are you that Cannon’s affiliated with Mayfield? As a killing partner or a mentee or anything like that?”

“We’re not,” Dixon said. “I’d call it an educated hunch.”

“An ‘educated hunch,’” Brix repeated. “That’s a new one on me.”

Vail crept forward in her seat to get a look at the building as Brix swung left into a parking spot. “I’m pretty damn sure Cannon is wrapped up in this.”

Brix slipped the gear shift lever into park, then shook his head. “That’s great. I’m glad we’re in full agreement here.”

He slipped the keys above the driver’s visor, then grabbed his phone, which was vibrating. “It’s Gordon.” He turned on his Bluetooth device. “Go ahead, Burt. Got you on speaker.”

“We’re at Cannon’s. Nobody’s here. We were able to grab a look through the kitchen window. Dishes in the sink, that’s about it. But a quick canvass of the property brought us to a shed he had out back. We found blood, so we went in.”

“Blood? How much?” Brix asked.

“Enough,” Mann said.

Vail gritted her teeth and closed her eyes.

“But here’s the thing,” he said. “There’s a few matted-down fibers stuck around the edges of the puddle. One of the NSIB guys here’s a hunter. Says it looks like it’s from a deer.”

Vail grabbed the seatback and pulled herself forward. “A deer? You think a deer was killed in that shed?”

“Looks that way. Fairly recently. Within days, would be my guess. But we’ll know more once we get a CSI out here. I made the call. He’s a half hour out. The guys just cleared the house. We’re gonna go through it now.”

Brix said, “Keep us posted,” then ended the call.

“That would fit the profile,” Vail said. “If he was learning from Mayfield, he decided it was time to try one himself. Started with an animal to prove he could actually kill something, to see how it felt. I wouldn’t be surprised if he started with something smaller, like a squirrel or a dog, but that deer could’ve been his first.”

“Hopefully he’s here and we can find out once and for all what the deal is.” Brix unholstered his SIG, checked it, then shoved it back into its leather pancake. “Roxx?”

Dixon patted her side, where her sidearm was affixed. “Yeah. Go in with Karen. I’ll keep watch. He shows his face, he won’t get far.”

Leaving Dixon positioned thirty yards back of the front entrance, giving her a view of the entire facility, Brix and Vail headed across newly laid sandstone tiles, toward oak barrel plank wood doors.

The building was a recently constructed stone structure—sporting workmanship that took substantial time, and money, to complete. Inside, boxes were stacked high atop one another. Carpenters were huddled around half-built bare wood counters. Sawdust coated every surface, and floated freely in the air. The whine of a drill rose and fell.

Looking though the front window, Vail took in as much as she could, as rapidly as she could. How many people were there, and where. Her right hand hovered near her holster, poised for quick access to her Glock 23.

“I don’t see Cannon.”

“Me either,” Brix said. “I’ll go in, let you know.” He pulled open the wood door and entered.

Vail watched as he surveyed the interior, tapped a worker on the shoulder, and exchanged a few words. He then faced the window and motioned Vail inside.

As she entered, a man with rolled-up sleeves walked into the lobby, holding blueprints. A pencil was tucked between his lips.

“Excuse me,” Brix said. “We need to talk with someone in charge.” He flashed his badge, then slipped it back into his pocket.

The man studied Brix’s face, then Vail’s. He pulled the pencil from his mouth and stuck it behind his ear. “I’m one of the managing partners. Cap. Cap Krandle.”

Vail said, “We’ve got some questions about the TTB application you submitted. Is your wine maker here?”

“Should be in the back. Haven’t seen him in a while.”

Vail’s gaze continued to roam the shadowed crevices of the room. “We’re going to need to know how long ‘a while’ is.”

“I don’t know. He was out in the vineyard this morning—”

“Did he tell you he was out in the vineyard,” Brix asked, “or did you observe that?”

The man tucked his chin back. “Is there a problem?”

Vail rested her hands on her hips. “Would we be here asking these questions if there wasn’t ‘a problem’?”

Krandle chewed on that a moment. Then he glanced over his shoulder, turned back to Brix and Vail and said, “He told me. I got here, I was busy with the guys here, working with the carpenters to make sure we had the day’s work laid out before us. We’re expecting a delivery and they need to make sure things are cleared out of the loading dock before the truck comes.” He shrugged. “I went back down into the barrel room and he was there. He told me he’d been out in the vineyards all morning.”

Brix and Vail stared at each other. Their faces were firm, but they each knew the impact of the man’s statement.

“Anyone else here who might’ve seen Mr. Cannon?”

Krandle scanned both their faces. “Cannon. Jimmy Cannon?”

Vail tilted her head. “Yeah. That’s who we’re talking about, right?”

“I thought you asked about our wine maker. Eugene Hannity.”

“Hann—so what does James—Jimmy Cannon do here?”

“Jimmy’s our inventory manager. He applied for the wine maker position, but he had no experience and we wanted someone who’d been there, done that.” Krandle chuckled. “We told Jimmy, ‘Maybe someday. Learn the trade, then maybe we’ll talk. But that’s years down the road.’”

The muscles in Brix’s jaw shifted. “Then let’s back up and start the fuck over. Where’s James Cannon been all day?”

“No idea,” Krandle said. “But I did see him about fifteen minutes ago.”

“Where?” Vail asked, her fingers inching closer to the Glock’s handle.

Krandle thumbed an area over his shoulder. Just then, the whites of two eyes appeared in the distant darkness. And then they vanished.

Vail saw them, threw her left hand back, and slapped Brix in the shoulder. And then she took off, shoving Cap Krandle into the wall and heading past him, down the hallway into the shadows. She yanked out the Glock, keeping her back against the rough stone of the corridor as she sidled into the darkness.

Brix was behind her, presumably with his SIG drawn.

They moved quickly through the sawdust-fogged air, toward a larger area lit by a single compact fluorescent bulb. They both cleared the room, eyes scanning the walls, looking for an exit.

DIXON STOOD IN THE COOL AIR, looking out at the mountains a few miles away, thinking how serene and scenic the landscape was up here.

She swiveled back toward the stone structure and blew some air out her lips. Was this a waste of time, or was James Cannon really a killer? The deer blood Gordon and Mann found may or may not be significant; Cannon could merely be a hunter.

Dixon thought back to the conversation at the gym. He was cocky and seemed to bully Mayfield—not what she would expect if Mayfield was Cannon’s mentor. It came off as playful banter between two friends, but was there something going on beneath the surface? Or were they playacting?

As she mulled her previous exchange with Mayfield and Cannon, her phone vibrated. She pulled the handset from her pocket without taking her eyes off the building. “Yeah.”

“Roxx.”

Brix’s voice.

“He might be on his way out toward you. Cannon isn’t the wine maker, he’s a wannabe. Currently the inventory manager. We didn’t get a good look at him, but someone made us and took off.”

“Got it.” She snapped her phone closed and drew her SIG.

“ANYTHING?” VAIL WHISPERED.

Brix used hand signals to indicate he was moving toward the door. He wanted her to cover him.

Brix stepped to the side, grabbed the knob, and pulled it open. Vail was in a crouch, Glock out front in a Weaver stance. The area beyond the door was vacant. Brix motioned her through.

Vail slid forward, cautious yet determined not to let Cannon escape their grasp. At best, they had a scared employee who saw cops and, for whatever reason, didn’t want to hang around to chat. At worst, they had a murderer in their sights, someone who might be able to provide clues about Robby.

Vail moved onward, through another room and down a different hallway. She was beginning to think they were going to lose him. He knew the layout of the winery, much of which wasn’t even finished, and there could be an exit they hadn’t seen during their approach. Some downwind access, a loading dock or delivery port that would take him away from them without their ever seeing him.

She was about to turn to share her thoughts with Brix when her phone rang.

DIXON STOOD THERE with her SIG at the ready, clasped in both hands, knees slightly bent, forearms taut.

And that’s when she saw him: James Cannon, the size and shape, the face. No doubt. They locked eyes—and his gaze dropped to her hands, where she was holding the chiseled metal pistol.

“Hold it right there, Jimmy,” Dixon shouted.

But he didn’t “hold it right there.” He spun and ran.

21

He’s headed—” Dixon craned her head skyward, but the sun wasn’t far enough in one direction to estimate east or west. She glanced toward the mountains, estimated where Highway 29 sat, and pressed the handset back to her mouth. “West, I think. Down behind the building. Positive ID.”

“As soon as we find our way out,” Vail said, “we’ll have your back.”

Dixon shoved the phone in her pocket and increased her pace, headed around the sharply sloped left side of the building. She shifted the SIG to her left hand and stuck out her right, using it as a third leg against the hillside. Her feet slipped in the loosely tilled soil, but she maintained her balance.

Fifty feet ahead of her, Cannon was doing much the same, ambling as fast as he could. But was he running away from her or toward something?

A yell behind her—Vail’s voice. Dixon dared not turn around or she might lose her balance and slide down the hill into the vines that lay less than ten feet away. Cannon was approaching level ground.

“Jimmy—” Dixon called. “We just want to talk! C’mon, man, why are you running?”

The dumb cop routine didn’t work—Cannon kept moving. He climbed over a short wrought iron fence, more decorative than functional, and broke into a dead run. Dixon struggled with the soil, and the faster she tried to go, the more she slipped and slid.

Goddamn it, come on!

VAIL TOOK ONE LOOK at the sloped ground and knew she could not traverse it. She had undergone knee surgery two months ago, and had already stressed it more than was wise. Vail waved Brix by her and told him she’d circle around. But as she turned to head back toward the front of the sprawling, multilevel building, her eye caught sight of an ATV parked in the shadows of a utility garage built into the far end of the structure. It was a tier below them, and Cannon was headed toward it.

That’s his endgame.

DIXON GRABBED a protruding root and yanked hard, using it to leverage herself up and over the fence. But as her feet hit the level ground, the rev of a rough outboard engine snagged her attention. She looked up to see James Cannon on a three wheel vehicle blowing out of an open garage. He twisted the throttle and the ATV burst forward, over the far edge of the hill.

And out of sight.

22

Vail reached Brix’s Crown Victoria out of breath—not so much because of the run but due to the stress of the moment, piled atop the strain of the past week. So much on her mind, so much had gone wrong. So little had gone right.

And now a killer within her grasp, about to slip away—unless she prevented it. She yanked open the door. But she was out of sync. She stuck her right leg into the car just as the door hit the endpoint and swung back into her face. Fuck!

She pushed it open again, felt her bottom lip swelling, then grabbed the keys from atop the visor. Backed out and headed farther down the road, around the other side of the tasting room building. But the road stopped—dead-ended as they had originally thought it did.

For an ATV, however, roads were unnecessary. That was something they had not anticipated.

The Ford’s engine was idling, her foot was shoved up against the brake—and she was filled with indecision. Forward? Or back, the way they came in? Which way would Cannon go? Toward the road? No—that’d make no sense. On the road, the cops had the advantage. Off road, the ATV was king.

Ahead were vines and beyond that, evergreens. Mountain. Uphill. Behind her, if Cannon was not headed for the road, he could go down through the vineyard and then into the forest. They wouldn’t be able to follow and he had acres upon acres to roam.

She swung the car around, floored the pedal, and drove past the winery building, which flew by on her right. And then, as she surmised, in the distance, a plume of smoke billowing behind him, was James Cannon and his ATV.

Vail climbed out of the car and started on foot after Cannon. It was hopeless, really. She knew that. But to just stand there and watch as the killer who had posed the woman in front of the Hall of Justice got away was more than she could stomach at the moment. Cannon’s mind game of leaving the vic on law enforcement’s doorstep had worked: Vail’s anger was close to boiling over into a red zone of danger.

She tore the Glock from her holster and headed into the vineyard.

23

Vail ran down an aisle, knowing the risks to her knee. Knowing it was something she had to do.

Behind her somewhere, Dixon and Brix were shouting.

She wasn’t about to turn around—or stop. Now in the same vineyard row as Cannon, all she could see was the brown plume of smoke. She smelled the acrid gasoline fumes and tasted the dirt on her tongue. Her sweat-soaked face was coated with a fine film of soil.

Trying to keep the dust from infiltrating her lungs—already irritated from the fire a few days ago—she brought her left arm to her mouth and buried her nose and lips in the crook of her elbow.

And as James Cannon continued increasing the distance between them, the sheer futility of her efforts hit her full on. She slowed to a jog, then stopped, bent over at the waist, hands on her knees.

She looked up to see the cloud of brown dirt hooking into the dense blind of trees to her right. Just as she had suspected.

Vail straightened up, her eyes tracking Cannon’s visible trail as she felt with her fingers to insert the Glock into its holster.

A moment later, she was joined by Dixon and Brix. She pointed toward the plume, somewhere in the distance, a location that was now only accurate in her imagination. She had no idea where James Cannon had gone. She just knew he wasn’t lying at her feet, handcuffs encircling his wrists.

“Totally sucks,” Dixon said.

“Saw it coming. Nothing I could do.”

Brix stepped forward and peered out over the vines, into the forested land half a mile away. “I called it in. There weren’t any choppers on alert. I think we just gotta face the fact he’s gone.”

“For now,” Vail said. “Let’s poke around his house, see what we can turn up.”

Dixon sighed. “Somehow that doesn’t seem . . . adequate.”

Vail turned and headed back toward their car. “It’s not.” She spit a mouthful of grainy soil from her mouth. “Not even close.”

CAP KRANDLE HAD CONTACTED Herndon’s chief executive and asked him to pull James Cannon’s employment application and hiring paperwork, which contained a home address that matched the one Gordon and Mann had obtained. If it had been as she suspected, that Cannon had not been looking to be a killer when he’d taken the job with Herndon, but had merely been someone capable of violence and had it unlocked through an association with Mayfield, then it made sense that he had not had the forethought to use subterfuge by listing false addresses and using disposable phones.

And if he was truly a narcissist like Vail believed, then Cannon probably felt he was smarter than everyone else and would be capable of eluding the grasp of law enforcement if the need ever arose.

Thus far, Vail had to admit, Cannon’s plan—whatever it was, and though far from ideal—had kept him a free man. Just how long that lasted, however, was not something the guy should take to the track. If Vail had something to say about it, he’d end up being disappointed with the results.

Vail finished cleaning her face with the wet cloth Krandle had given her. “Something to keep in mind, Mr. Krandle. We’ve got reason to believe James Cannon is a violent individual. You’d be smart to avoid contacting him. And if he comes back here—which I sincerely doubt—play it cool. We didn’t tell you anything and you don’t know anything. But as soon as it’s safe, call us. Better yet, text us so there’s no chance of him overhearing you.”

Brix handed him his card. “He calls, comes by, anything—let us know.”

WHILE BRIX TENDED TO AN ERRAND, Vail and Dixon made their way to Cannon’s house. Upon arriving, they saw three county vehicles parked out front at various angles, a haphazard job that suggested they arrived on scene in a hurry.

Through the front window, its blinds parted by the tip of a SIG Sauer handgun, Burt Gordon was motioning them in. He stepped back and the aluminum slats fell closed.

Vail led the way across the lawn, green and thick and robust—which did not surprise her. The medium gray house, set back and sandwiched between two equal size single-story homes, was located in what appeared to be a respectable middle class neighborhood.

Vail pushed the door open and entered ahead of Dixon. As expected, the interior was well-maintained and obsessively clean.

A series of reference texts on the art and science of enology lined the bookshelves of his family room. Dixon pulled one and thumbed through it. “He was clearly serious about being a wine maker.”

“Lots of people have dreams,” Vail said. “Just because he had books about the subject doesn’t mean he would’ve been any good at it. But the point is, he didn’t think there was much value in being an inventory control manager. It was a job he took because he couldn’t secure the position he really wanted. To him, being a wine maker held the prestige he sought.”

Dixon shoved the book back onto the shelf. “So he saw his job as a failure?”

Vail pressed on through the house. “That could’ve been a trigger. Frustrated in his ability to capture the position he really wanted, he saw the power and ‘respect’ Mayfield commanded by killing. He began to thirst for that power. Killing was a way for him to achieve that. Posing the body on the steps of the Hall of Justice put him front and center. Bang—he’s got the power.”

“PC?” Dixon asked.

They swiveled, did not see one, then split up and searched the two bedrooms.

“Got a laptop,” Vail said. “It’s unplugged.” As Dixon joined her, she lifted the lid. The screen remained black. “Looks like it’s off. Let’s have Gordon and Mann bring it to the lab for the techies to comb through.”

They moved into the living room. Bodybuilding magazines were stacked on the coffee table—and in the master bathroom, too. Empty MET-Rx canisters sat stacked atop the recycling bin in the garage, near an extra set of dumbbells and a weight bench perched in front of a mirror in the second, empty port. A half-filled Platypus water bottle stood on a chair by the far wall.

Mann appeared in the doorway to the garage. “Anything?”

“Got a laptop for you to take back to the lab.” Vail then told him her developing theory on the trigger behind Cannon’s suspected act of murder.

“We’ll get a deputy posted here in case he returns,” Mann said, “but I doubt he’ll come anywhere near here.”

“Where’s that shed?” Dixon asked.

Mann led them out the backdoor into a medium-size yard. Through a stand of tall bushes and trees was an evergreen-painted structure that blended into the existing flora.

They stood inside, a ceiling mounted fluorescent fixture providing adequate light. Vail knelt and examined the dried, matted blood.

“The CSI took samples,” Mann said, “so don’t worry about messing it up.”

“Did he agree—was it a deer?”

“He said that was a good guess, but you know those guys. They’d rather have facts than spend time debating possibilities.”

They left the shed and stood in the yard.

“He knows we know,” Dixon said. “We’ve set up roadblocks on all roads leading out of the valley, but he’s on an ATV. He could be anywhere. Question is, how far can he get on that thing before he runs out of gas? And how far can he go before he hits a natural barrier he can’t cross?”

“From what you described,” Mann said, “sounds like he could get lost in those woods. Unless he’s a survivalist, sooner or later he’s gonna need food and water.”

“There are plenty of houses to breach,” Dixon said. “I say we go public, put the word out. Make everyone aware he’s out there. We can circulate a photo. Go full blast.”

Vail had to hold her tongue. If they had gone public a couple days ago with the Crush Killer’s murders, John Mayfield might’ve been caught sooner. And Robby might still be—

She stopped herself. No sense in looking backward. It was time to move ahead, keep tending the path they had started clearing.

Dixon’s phone buzzed. She lifted it, listened, and said, “Be right over. Have her wait—” Dixon’s eyes rose from their focus on the ground and met Vail’s. “Really. Okay, thanks.”

“What?” Vail asked.

Dixon turned to Burt Gordon, who had just entered the yard. “Finish up here, then meet us back at the department.”

“What’s the deal?” Vail asked.

“Merilynn Lugo. That’s where Brix went. She gave him a DVD for us.”

24

Dixon and Vail burst through the second-floor doors of the Napa County Sheriff’s Department and strode purposefully to the glass window. Dixon swiped her proximity card and the electronic locks clicked open.

They walked briskly down the hall to the task force conference room. Sitting on the table was a black DVD case with a Post-it note stuck on the front: “From Ray.”

“I didn’t say anything because it was a long shot and I didn’t want to get your hopes up, but I made one last attempt with Merilynn. I took her on a little field trip to visit Mayfield in the hospital. He didn’t look so threatening with all the tubes and beeping machines. I told her we’d submitted her WITSEC request and that we needed her to do something for us. Seemed like I was getting through, but I didn’t want to push her. So I gave her a little time to think about it. Her place was on the way back from Herndon, so I stopped by.”

“And she gave you a DVD?”

Brix scooped it up and handed it to Vail.

Vail pried open the lid and stared at the disc, which bore Ray Lugo’s slanted handwriting. Did it hold some secret information that would give her clues as to what happened to Robby? Would it answer the question of what John Mayfield had meant when he taunted them with, “There’s more to this than you know?”

“Karen,” Dixon said softly, “We need to watch this.”

Vail woke from her stupor. “Right.” She plucked the disc from the plastic spindle, then placed the DVD in the laptop tray and watched as Windows Media Player loaded.

Brix, Dixon, Mann, and Vail stood around the computer. Vail felt Dixon shudder when the image of Lugo’s living room filled the screen. Lugo then appeared and sat down on the couch. The angle of the camera and Lugo’s proximity to the lens gave the impression it was filmed on a webcam.

He leaned in close, looked up at something off to his right, then turned back to the camera. “If you’re watching this, something must’ve happened to me.” He lowered his voice and his eyes danced from left to right, suddenly avoiding the lens.

“I . . . this is Sergeant Raymond Lugo of the St. Helena Police Department. Everything I’m about to tell you is the truth. If you’re watching this . . . I have to assume you’re law enforcement. I need you to . . . I need you to look after my wife and son. Please promise me that.” He glanced up at the camera and then canted his eyes downward again.

He took a deep breath, covered his face with both hands, then dropped them to his lap and extended his neck. Staring at the ceiling.

“C’mon, Ray,” Dixon said under her breath. “Get to it.”

“In October, my wife, Merilynn, and my son, Mario, were kidnapped. I got a call. This guy said he had them, and he’d kill them unless I did what he wanted. He proved he had them. I—I had no choice.”

Lugo looked away, licked his lips, kept his head down as he talked.

“He told me. If I tell anyone at work, he’d kill them. If I call in the FBI, he’d kill them. If I told the media . . . he’d kill them. And he said he had a way of finding out if I told anyone at work. He knew I was a cop. I couldn’t . . . ” He looked up at the camera. “I couldn’t take a chance he was telling the truth.”

His bottom lip quivered, and he bit down to arrest its twitch.

“He had them,” Lugo finally said. “For two days. He called back and I, I made a deal with him. And he let them go. Left them by the side of the road in front of the fire station, near the Sheriff’s Department.

“I looked at video, tried to figure out who this guy was. I spoke with Merilynn. And my son. Tried to get any information I could to find this fucker.” He wiped at his face with both hands, sighed deeply, and sat back into the couch. He was far from the camera now, but his voice was still audible. “He told me not to look for him, that I’d never find him. And . . . and that no place was safe. If I did anything wrong—tried finding him, reporting it, he’d find Merilynn and Mario again. Only this time they wouldn’t be coming home. He’d kill them. And it wouldn’t be pleasant.” His eyes narrowed in anger, then he sat forward, leaning closer to the lens in a way that distorted his facial features.

“I couldn’t find anything, I got nowhere. But the deal I cut with him. I thought it might give me some clues as to who he was. I thought maybe there was some way I could track him based on the info he wanted me to get for him. Finally I found something. But he knew and he called me, warned me. The only warning I’d get, he said. Stop immediately or he’d kill them. And me.”

Vail put her hands on her hips. “What the fuck were you doing for him, Ray?” she shouted, as if it would do some good. No one seemed to mind. They all wanted the same question answered.

“I thought that if I got that kind of a rise out of him, I must’ve been on to something. It had to do with a guy I knew, César Guevara.”

Vail and Dixon eyed each other.

“The guy wanted info on César,” Lugo continued, “from the police database. Not just ours, but the Sheriff’s Department’s, too. So I ran the stuff he wanted. Then I started looking into César’s business. He runs a mobile bottling company out of American Canyon. I know César from when we were kids, working the vineyards. But the kidnapper is somehow tied in with him because he called me right after I went to see César and started asking questions. He said he didn’t know what the hell I was talking about, that he didn’t know a big white guy who drives a van. But that’s all I had on the kidnapper. That’s all Merilynn and my son could tell me. He spoke English like a native, no accent. And that was it.

“An hour after visiting César, the kidnapper called me. I knew I was on to something. What it was—I didn’t know. But . . . ” He turned away and said, “I was too afraid to look into it. He said he’d find us. Another state, another country, didn’t matter. He’d track us down.”

A noise behind him. Lugo twisted his torso. What looked like Merilynn in the background, entering the room. Lugo reached out his hand, splayed fingers covering the webcam, the screen darkening. Fumbling. Raised voices. Lugo’s body leaned left, then the video cut off.

They waited a few seconds before Dixon blurted, “That’s it? Please, tell me there’s more.”

They continued to stare at the screen, but the progress bar at the bottom struck the endpoint and then the video started from the beginning. Brix stuck out his index finger and clicked the mouse. Windows Media Player closed.

Vail looked up. Her eyes searched the conference room and came to rest on the clock. It was now almost 5:00 PM. Damn it. She grabbed her temples, took a deep breath, and coughed. Then she sat down heavily on a nearby chair.

Burt Gordon walked into the conference room. His eyes scanned the others in attendance and seemed to have no difficulty reading their body language. “Bad?”

“I’m not sure how to characterize it,” Brix said.

“Bad sounds about right to me,” Austin Mann said. He filled Gordon in on what he’d missed. “There’s no good way to look at it. Question is, what did Ray know, and when?”

Dixon swung a chair from beneath the table and sat down. “You mean, did he know Mayfield was the guy who took his wife and son?”

“I think the question is when he knew it,” Vail said. She slid forward in the chair and leaned back, letting her arms fall free over the chair’s sides. “At some point he figured out that Mayfield was the kidnapper. And if I had to guess, I’d say it was before Roxx, Lugo, and I went to see Guevara.”

Brix walked over to the white board and examined the timeline he had drawn for the prior week, which documented the major breaks in the Crush Killer case. “Maybe, maybe not. I mean, I wasn’t there so I didn’t see the looks Ray and Guevara were giving each other, but Guevara simply might’ve been pissed at Ray for bringing five-o onto his premises. May have nothing to do with Mayfield and the murders. Maybe he’s cheating on his taxes. Whatever it is, good bet it’s illegal—but it’s not the answer to our problems.”

“No,” Vail said. “Hold up a minute. Ray thinks Guevara’s involved in some way with the kidnapper—who turns out to be Mayfield—because right after Ray goes to Guevara and starts asking questions, the kidnapper flips out and goes off on Ray for not leaving ‘it’ alone. That’s a pretty irrefutable connection.”

“But we don’t know what Ray asked Guevara. I guess we might assume it’s got to do with him, with Mayfield.” Dixon nodded at the laptop. “But Ray didn’t say. Seems to me we’ve got lots of holes and only a few facts, and we’re trying to fill in the holes with assumptions. That’s a recipe for a failed investigation. At best.”