Velocity

“I agree,” Mann said.

Vail held up her hands in surrender. “Fine. I’ll give you that. But we can’t ignore the connection. There’s no obvious reason for Guevara to even know the kidnapper unless they were affiliated somehow. Guevara’s involved in this. On some level.”

“I got Guevara’s LUDs and cell logs earlier this afternoon,” Gordon said, moving to a stack of papers at the far end of the conference table. “Haven’t had a chance to go through them yet.” He licked his index finger and thumbed through the pile. He stopped, glanced around the room, then snuck a pair of reading glasses from his shirt pocket. “Here.” He yanked a sheaf of pages free and tossed the first aside.

“Just so you all know,” Vail said. “I’m on a flight out of here in a few hours. I leave for SFO at 4:00 AM.”

Brix ground his molars. As he looked at Vail, his stress and frustration were evident for all to see.

“My boss is gonna have agents from the San Francisco field office pick up the investigation.”

Dixon shook her head in disapproval.

“Any chance I can get him to reconsider?” Brix asked.

“Beyond our control,” Vail said. “I tried. But the unit’s shorthanded and they caught a big case.”

“Got something,” Gordon said, his stubby finger poking at a spot on the phone logs. “Calls from Guevara to Ray. Ray’s cell. Starting two days ago with a text message, followed by a three-minute call.”

Vail gathered herself and rose slowly from her seat. She moved beside Gordon and looked over his shoulder. “That was after we’d met with Guevara, which makes sense. Guevara was pissed.”

“At some point,” Mann said, “Ray knew Mayfield was the kidnapper.”

“He could’ve suspected it all along,” Vail said, “but didn’t get positive confirmation until yesterday. Maybe it was something in the interview. ’Cause that’s when he pulled his gun and shot Mayfield.”

Dixon shook her head. “He purposely left his backup piece in its holster when we all stowed our side arms in the lockers. So he either knew or strongly suspected.”

“Or he needed us to find Mayfield so he could kill him. Payback,” Vail said.

Dixon stood and began to pace. “Not payback. Security. He said he tried finding the kidnapper, but he couldn’t. And when he did try, Mayfield was all over him, with more threats. He’d already proved he could operate at will, so Ray couldn’t chance it. What if he had an accomplice? Friends on the outside who’d take care of business for him? When Ray put two and two together, and realized that his kidnapper was our serial killer, he knew the opportunity would come for him to get the guy out of his life—and keep his family safe—when we caught him.”

“If we caught him,” Gordon said.

“Well, we did catch him. And soon as we did, Ray shot him.”

“We’re missing an important point,” Vail said. “We got a vital piece of information from Ray’s video.”

Brix kicked at the chair in front of him. “Really? Might as well share it with us, because I didn’t fucking see anything that’ll help us.”

“Mayfield’s in a coma and who knows when he’ll come to or what he’ll tell us. Ray’s dead. Cannon’s in the wind. But we’ve got someone who’s tied into this somehow right in our backyard.”

“Guevara,” Dixon said.

Mann nodded slowly. “Guevara.”

Vail glanced at the clock again. Running out of time. “Seems to me, makes more sense to lean on Guevara and see what he knows.”

“So . . . what?” Brix asked. “Bring him in, sweat him?”

Dixon began pacing in front of the windowed wall. “A guy like that, we bring him in, I think he clams up at best and lawyers up at worst.”

“Agreed.” Vail thought a moment. “We get a warrant, we go to his place and start going through his rigs.”

“His rigs,” Gordon said. “Those mobile bottling trailers? What do you expect to find in there?”

“Nothing,” Vail said. “But once we start putting our hands on his precision machinery, talk about tearing it apart to look for evidence, he’ll flip out. It’s his profit center. He may start talking just to make us stop.”

Dixon flipped open her phone. “I’ll start the wheels moving for getting a warrant.”

“How long do you think?” Vail asked.

“I’ll need someone to draw up the probable cause statement.”

“Got it,” Mann said. “Plenty of experience with that.” He pulled a chair in front of the laptop.

“Redd,” she said to Brix. “Get NSIB over to Ray’s house. If Merilynn won’t cooperate, get a warrant. Impound his computers, every goddamn thing you can find. Ray made a video; maybe he kept an insurance policy.”

“Insurance policy. Like copies of records, phone calls, video, stuff like that? Wouldn’t he have mentioned it in the DVD if he had?”

“Not necessarily. Looked to me like Merilynn interrupted him and he didn’t finish it.” She pointed at the laptop. “Wait a sec. Look at the DVD Ray made. The file, when was it created?”

Mann opened Windows Explorer, clicked, and scrolled. “The DVD was burned two months ago. As to when it was filmed . . . I don’t know.”

“Close enough,” Dixon said. “My guess is he filmed it, then burned it to disc. No reason I can see to film it and leave it in the drawer. A lot of shit could’ve gone down in the past two months. But maybe things didn’t heat up till we found Victoria Cameron in that cave. Mayfield’s first vic.” She turned to Vail. “Is it possible Ray knew Mayfield was the killer from day one?”

Vail played back the events of the past week in her mind. “I doubt it. But now that we know there was something going on between Ray and Guevara beginning at least two months ago, I don’t think we can rule it out, Roxx.”

“Goddamn him.” Dixon looked at the screen, where the image of Ray Lugo had stared back at them moments ago. “Karen, with me. Let’s go pay a visit to Guevara. You tried rattling his cage before. Maybe we need to try a different approach.”

25

The sun’s March burn melted behind the mountains like wax over a bottle of Madeira: beginning with a smoldering deformation, then accelerating as the heat built, spreading, losing definition, and enveloping all.

They arrived at Superior Mobile Bottling without a warrant in hand, and little time to kill. But kill it they must . . . because going in strong against a César Guevara without the ammunition to back it up had already failed. And at present, their best ammunition was not filled with gunpowder but with written words.

Dixon pulled the Ford Crown Victoria against the curb, down the street from Superior’s facility in American Canyon, and shoved the gearshift into park.

“How long?”

Dixon glanced at the dashboard clock. “No way of knowing.”

“Your judges?”

“Not always sympathetic.”

“At least you got a look around last time we were here.”

“I didn’t have much time,” Dixon said. “It was a quick once-over. We really need to tear the place apart.”

Vail turned and looked at the fading light in the distance. The sky behind her was a purplish black, like a fading bruise on an otherwise pleasing landscape. Ahead, there was still a yellow hue, dissolving to dusky charcoal as the minutes ticked by.

“You okay?”

Dixon’s question pulled Vail from her reverie. “I’m not going to see the sun in Napa again for . . . who knows how long.”

“Did you ever see the sun in Napa?”

Vail chuckled.

Dixon’s phone vibrated. She tapped the Bluetooth receiver. “Dixon.”

“Roxx.” It was Brix’s voice. “You want the good news or the bad news first?”

“I’ll take the good.”

“Just spoke with Timmons from NSIB. He’s taken over as point for us so we have a consistent contact, since it seems we’re going to need them long-term. Or longer-term than we originally thought.”

“Yeah, no shit.”

“So Timmons says he’s got a list compiled of all the potential locations where must is produced within earshot of the Napa Valley Wine Train whistle. There’s a margin of error because it’s not scientific or anything like that. But this is like a freaking needle in a haystack, anyway.”

“How many potential sites are there?” Dixon asked.

“Sixty-plus. NSIB’s got some guys looking into the whole list, just to see if there are any that can be eliminated based on some set of criteria Timmons and his team are developing. You want to be plugged into what they’re thinking?”

“No, we’ve got enough to do. Let them do their jobs. Touch base with him from time to time, and if they sound like they’ve landed on the wrong planet, let me know and we’ll meet with them, set them straight. Otherwise, let’s see what they turn up.” Dixon threw Vail a sideways glance. “Redd—I said I wanted the good news first.”

“By comparison, that is the good news.”

“I’m not sure we want to know,” Vail said, “but what’s the bad?”

“Search warrant was denied. Mirabelli rejected our argument. Said there was no direct connection between . . . well, between anything. Get him something that’s more than just a series of coincidences and he’ll reconsider. What we’ve got doesn’t even rise to reasonable suspicion.”

Dixon shook her head. “Well, that’s just great.”

“And for what it’s worth,” Brix said, “DOJ wasn’t too excited about our WITSEC request for Merilynn.”

Vail said, “We didn’t give them anything particularly compelling, and that video Ray made didn’t help her case any.”

“One other thing. The Hall of Justice fountain vic has an ID. Kaitlin Zago. They’re putting together a backgrounder on her but there doesn’t appear to be any obvious connection to Mayfield’s vics. And—the manual search through the handcuff database is taking longer than I’d hoped. I put a call into Peerless in case they can tell us who they sold that serial number to. But they’re back east, so we probably won’t hear from them till tomorrow. Where are you two?”

“Sitting a block away from Guevara’s place. Waiting on the warrant that’s not gonna come. We’ll check in with you in a bit.” Dixon reached up and disconnected the call, then leaned back hard in her seat. “Now what?”

Vail pointed ahead. “Let’s go take a look around. See what we find.”

Dixon did not hesitate. She kicked over the engine and proceeded down the street into Superior Mobile Bottling’s parking lot. Standard sodium vapor lamps illuminated the area in front of the building where about a dozen spots sat empty. Except for a fluorescent fixture in the office, everything appeared dark.

Dixon stopped the car and craned her neck to look through the front glass door. “What do you think?”

“Go around back. Let’s see if there are any cars in the lot or lights on in the warehouse.”

Dixon pulled up to an iron gate that blocked their path approximately halfway along the right side of the structure. “Was this here last time?”

Vail sat back. “It was rolled all the way open.” She popped her door, got out, and stepped up to the fence. Grabbed the upright wrought iron struts, peered into the back region of the property, didn’t see anything.

She turned and headed back to the car. “Nothing. We got a location on his house?”

“I can get it.” Dixon pulled her phone, made a call, and was soon jotting down the address. Twenty-five minutes later, they were pulling into the Sonoma neighborhood where César Guevara lived.

From what Vail could see in the complete darkness, it appeared to be an immaculately cared for community, with houses that almost looked out of place, possessing an eastern Victorian grandeur.

“Nice neighborhood,” Vail said, straining to get a look at the passing homes.

“Oh, yeah,” Dixon said. She held up her pad and caught the headlight of a trailing car. “Millions. Each one of these homes. Five mil, maybe more.” Dixon glanced one more time at the address, then looked left at the house. “This is it.”

“You said ‘millions’ and ‘this is it.’ Almost in the same sentence. César Guevara lives here?”

Dixon hiked her brow, then nodded. “Looks like mobile bottling is quite lucrative.”

Vail grabbed the handle and pulled. “Quite.”

Dixon and Vail walked down the cobblestone path, passed through a short white picket fence, and stepped up to the hand-carved hardwood door. Dixon stuck out her hand to knock, then pulled it back. “What are we doing?”

“We’re about to see if this is Guevara’s current address. And if it is, if he’s home.”

Dixon stepped back from the door, out of the porch light. “Let’s sit on the house. Watch for a bit. See who comes and goes.”

Vail glanced behind Dixon at the house. “I don’t have a lot of time left, Roxx.”

“We can’t run an investigation based on what your schedule is.”

Vail turned away and rested her hands on her hips. “I know. Let’s at least talk to him, confront him with what we’ve got, see what gives.”

“You’ve done that. Didn’t work.”

“We’ve got something now,” Vail said. “We can bluff him.”

“We don’t even have enough to get a warrant. You’ve gone toe to toe with Guevara. Is he the type of guy who can be bullied or tricked?”

Vail sighed. What does she want me to do? I’m leaving in a few hours and I’m nowhere on finding Robby. No leads. Except—maybe—Guevara. “Probably not. But I need to try.”

Dixon held up her hands. “Fine. I can’t see it putting us in a worse position than we are now.”

Vail frowned. “No shit.” She quickly rapped on the door before Dixon could change her mind. Seconds passed, then the door swung open. Two men stood there, both wearing large-caliber pistols and making no effort to hide them. “Those legal?” Vail asked, nodding at their hardware.

“Who the fuck are you?” one of the men asked.

Vail held up her creds. “FBI. Who the fuck are you?”

“I got it.” A voice in the background. César Guevara. The door swung farther open, revealing the man of the house. He was wearing a sport coat and a black silk shirt. Dressed to go out, perhaps. And in the distance, Vail could make out the tips of high heels. Smelled floral perfume. Wife—or girlfriend. Definitely going out on the town. This may work out better than I thought.

“Sorry to bother you on your way out,” Vail said. “But we’ve got a couple questions.”

“Come by my office. Tomorrow.” Guevara started to close the door, but Vail stuck out her foot and the heavy wood hit against her shoe. Guevara turned back and eyed her with a narrow gaze. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“We won’t take much of your time—”

“I guess I should cooperate. At least you’re not sticking your gun in my face this time. Very decent of you, Agent Vail. By the way, I’ve got that videotape all ready to go to your . . . what do you call it? Your behavioral analysis unit?”

Vail felt Dixon’s gaze bearing down on her. Ignore it. Guevara’s trying to get under your skin. Block it out. Don’t let him make you do something you’ll regret. Vail grinned, which helped diffuse her anger. “We just need a couple of minutes of your time.” Plowing forward without pausing, she said, “Ray Lugo told us you two were more than just friends who worked the vineyards together as kids. He said he was helping you out. You and John Mayfield.” Vail stopped, watched the creases in his face. There was decent illumination from the porch light, and some ambient brightness pouring in from the entryway. His face twitched, the eyelid fluttered, much in the same way it had this morning when she had questioned him and shown him Robby’s photograph. “And that interests us, Mr. Guevara, because John Mayfield is a serial killer. He’s done some bad things. And that means you . . . ” She shrugged.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Guevara said. “And it’s probably all bullshit anyway, because if it wasn’t, we wouldn’t be standing here chatting. You’d be sweating me out in some hot interrogation room. Isn’t that what you people do? But then I’d call my lawyer, who charges seven hundred bills an hour, and, well . . . we both know how the game is played.” He turned away from the door and called to one of his men, “Vaya a la limusina. Ahorita llego.” Go to the limousine. I’ll be there in a minute.

“A limo. Very nice.” Vail let her eyes demonstrably roam the interior of his home. “Guess the mobile bottling business pays well.”

“Good evening, Agent Vail. We’re done here.” He moved back from the door. And it slammed closed in their faces.

26

Vail pushed her head back into her severely reclined seat. They were parked a block and a half away, across the street in a neighbor’s driveway. “That looks like a Hummer limo. What do you think?”

Dixon lifted her head and took a peek. “Yeah.”

“You think his bodyguards are going with them?”

Dixon kept her eyes forward, watching the lights of the vehicle move away from them. “They wouldn’t be very effective bodyguards if they didn’t . . . guard him. Would they?”

“Good point.” The lights faded and then disappeared. “Ready?”

“You sure you want to do this?”

Vail reached up and turned off the dome light. “Are you really asking me that question?” She opened the door and pulled herself off the reclined seat, then turned to Dixon. “Better move it onto the curb. In case the neighbor complains.”

Dixon propped up her seat, started the car, and moved it. Then she joined Vail as they made their way toward César Guevara’s house.

“Karen, I’m gonna say it again. Because you’re not hearing me.”

“I heard you the last three times. Breaking and entering. Not like I’m a goddamn dimwit. I know what I’m doing. You wanna save your ass, stay back. Go take a drive. Pick me up in twenty.”

“You know I’m not going to do that.”

“Then stop reminding me what we’re doing is wrong. But I’m leaving, Roxx. And Robby could be in trouble. John Mayfield’s in a coma. Lugo’s dead. And the only person we know of who knows anything about anything is this asshole. And the goddamn judge won’t give us a warrant. Do you think we’ve got a choice?”

“There are always choices, Karen.”

Vail gave Dixon a hard look. But she kept moving, stepped over the low picket fence, and made her way to a dark side of the house, bordered by manzanita hedges. “If you’re with me, watch my back. And if you see any security cameras, let me know.”

“I didn’t see any when we were talking to him.”

“Me neither,” Vail said, keeping her back against the bushes and shuffling forward. “Doesn’t mean he hasn’t got any.”

“What about dogs? I didn’t hear or see any, but—”

“They’d be on us by now.” Am I insane? What the hell am I doing? Robby would do the same for me. There’s no choice.

Vail moved to the back of the house and pointed at security lights mounted above the large ivy-covered arbor. “Motion sensors. Follow me.” She made her way in a circuitous route that took them beyond the reach of the infrared lenses. Seconds later, they stepped up to the door without having tripped the sensors. “You don’t happen to have a lock picking kit with you.”

Dixon glared at her—a look Vail could make out as hostile even in the moonlight. “I don’t even own one, Karen.”

“Don’t look at me that way. I don’t own one, either.” Vail examined the glass panels that made up half the wood door. She did not want to enter forcefully, but she didn’t see a choice. She wrapped the bottom of her shirt around her right hand and tried the knob. Locked.

“You didn’t think he’d leave his house unlocked, did you?”

“I learned a long time ago to check.”

Dixon leaned back. “How many times have you done this?”

Vail looked over her shoulder to the left, then to the right. By landscape and architectural design, they were well blocked from any neighboring houses. With her hand still wrapped in her shirt, she thrust her fist forward, through the lowest glass square.

“Oh, Jesus,” Dixon said. Her eyes canted up, then left, right, and back to the house. No movement inside. “Can’t believe we’re doing this,” she whispered.

Vail stuck her left hand through the opening, unlocked the door, and pushed it open. Then she wiped the inside knob with her shirt. “Okay. We’re in.”

“And now what?”

“Now we look around. Fast. In case we tripped some kind of silent alarm.”

Dixon closed her eyes. “Oh, that’d be fucking peachy.”

“C’mon,” Vail said, then moved forward. “No fingerprints, okay?” It was an obvious comment, but when you’re working fast and stressing over the fact you’re breaking and entering, it’s easy to reach and touch without thinking first about every action you take.

Had she known they were going to do this, she would have brought gloves. But crossing over the line was not something she planned on doing—ever. Yet in the here and now, it seemed like the best thing to do . . . certainly the desperate thing to do.

Most of the house was dark. A light was on by the entryway, where they’d been standing—legally—about an hour ago. “Look for an office of some kind. A place he’d keep papers, business stuff.”

“Wouldn’t that be at the warehouse?”

“Not necessarily. Depends on the nature of the documents. Does it have anything to do with Superior Mobile Bottling?”

“What exactly is ‘it’?”

Vail moved through the darkness. “Anything related to Robby, Lugo, or Mayfield.” She pointed Dixon toward a room off to her left while she went right. They worked slowly in the dark, until Vail found a flashlight in a drawer in the kitchen. She used it judiciously, holding two fingers across its lens to restrict the beam in case a neighbor could see in through a second- or third-story window.

She pulled her BlackBerry and glanced at the display. She figured they’d broken the seal to the backdoor two minutes ago. How long did that leave them before the police arrived? She had no idea—except that a typical response rate was around nine minutes. But there were so many variables in that figure it was nearly useless to her. Were cruisers nearby when the call came in? Were there private security guards employed by a neighborhood watch group? How far was the closest Police or Sheriff’s Department substation?

Dixon joined her in the hallway. “Nothing. How long do you want to keep pushing our luck?”

“Keep looking down here. I’m going up. You wanna get the hell out, I totally understand.”

Vail took her flashlight up the curving staircase to the second floor. Unfortunately César Guevara lived quite well, and this home had three stories. She would have to move more quickly.

Master bedroom. Bathroom. Checked beneath the four-poster, shone her light behind cabinets, through closets. Guevara was a dapper dresser when he wasn’t working in the warehouse, with dark double-breasted suits that looked like designer cuts. Allen Edmonds and Bruno Magli shoeboxes lined the middle shelf in the cavernous walk-in closet.

This is where she would concentrate her efforts. She grabbed a new pair of black Gold Toe dress socks and slipped them on her hands. It made for awkward groping, but the trade-off was worth it.

She brushed aside his suits, then his shirts, pants . . . looking for a concealed wall safe. Pulled open the drawers of the built-in ebony cabinetry, felt around for a false bottom. Got down on all fours and crawled along the floor, her Gold Toe-clad fingertips probing for a break in the carpet, a concealed seam that might be an invitation to buried treasure. Nothing.

Checked the clock on her BlackBerry. They’d now been in the house nine minutes. At this point, with each passing second, the likelihood of a law enforcement response to their entry bordered on unacceptable risk.

As she started down the stairs, Dixon came running at her. “I got something—but we gotta get outta here. Now. Sonoma PD’s on its way—”

“How do you—”

Dixon turned and led the way out. “Brix. When you went upstairs, I called him, told him to monitor the radio.”

They hit the ground floor and were heading toward the backdoor. Vail wiped down the flashlight and placed it back in the drawer. “Did you touch anything?”

“Don’t know—don’t think so. Maybe a few things—”

Vail, hands still protected by the socks, grabbed for the doorknob. “Does he know? Brix?”

They followed the same roundabout route toward the hedge line, avoiding the motion sensors. “Did I tell him? No. Does he know? Of course, he’s not an idiot.”

As Dixon followed Vail back to the car, Vail pulled off the Gold Toes and shoved them deep into her pocket.

“Neat trick with the socks,” Dixon said. “I get the feeling you’ve done this before.”

“Nope. First time.” And hopefully the last.

After they had climbed into the Ford and slammed their doors, two Sonoma Police Department cruisers pulled up to the Guevara estate, light bars flashing. Vail and Dixon laid their seats back. To any of the cops who cared to look, theirs was an empty vehicle parked at the curb a block and a half away. While their Ford was somewhat out of place in a tony neighborhood like this one, it was dark and empty. The police were more likely focused on the object of their concern: the compromised house, with a peripheral eye peeled for fleeing suspects.

“How long do you want to hang out?” Vail asked.

“Let’s wait for them to get inside, then I’ll fire her up and we’ll back away slowly. Hopefully they didn’t grab our plate.”

“Too far away.”

Dixon lifted her head and peered over the dash. Apparently satisfied the area was clear, she reached forward and started the engine, then backed away as planned, using the side view mirrors as a guide. When they had gotten another two blocks, Dixon angled around a corner and swung the car around, headed away from the scene of their crime.

“You gonna show me what you found?”

“It was dark and I didn’t have a whole lot of time, but I thought it might be important.”

“Let me see it.”

Dixon pulled to the curb, then flicked on the dome light. She stuck her hand inside her blouse, extracted a piece of folded paper, and handed it to Vail.

Vail unfurled it.

“It’s just an address,” Dixon said. “I think it’s Ian Wirth’s. His home.” Dixon thought a moment. “Wirth, Victoria Cameron, and Isaac Jenkins were the only three people who were against Superior getting that bottling contract. Cameron and Jenkins were killed. If I’m right, and this is Wirth’s home address . . . we may be on to something. There’d be no reason for Guevara to have it. Right?”

Vail sat there staring at the page. Off somewhere in the distance she heard what Dixon was saying. But she was seeing—and thinking— something else. Because in front of her was an address, all right.

But what caught her attention was that it was in Robby’s handwriting.

27

Are you sure?” Dixon asked. “Robby’s handwriting?”

Vail wiped away the tears that had pooled in her lower lids. “No doubt whatsoever.”

Dixon looked away, facing the windshield. The interior dome light made the glass into a mirror from which their distorted reflections stared back at them. Neither one looked pleased at this news.

Vail glanced at the clock. “I leave for the airport in six hours. How the hell am I gonna solve this in six hours?”

“I know this is hard for you, Karen. It’d be hard for me, too. But have faith in us. This case doesn’t have to be wrapped up before you get on that plane.”

“The longer Robby is missing, the less chance we have of finding him. And if he is around here—in Napa, in California, on the West Coast—the thought of flying twenty-five hundred miles away is . . . ” She shook her head. “It’s like I’m abandoning him. I don’t know if that makes sense.”

Dixon placed a hand on Vail’s forearm. “Of course it does. I’m sorry. But I promise you, I won’t give up. We won’t give up.”

Vail looked down at the paper bearing Robby’s handwriting. “What does this mean?”

“At its most basic level, Robby wrote someone’s address on a piece of paper and it ended up in César Guevara’s possession. At the moment, that’s all it means.”

That’s not all it means. There’s something here. But as has been the case this past week, nothing adds up. Nothing makes sense. We catch the serial killer, who says, “There’s more to this than you know.” And he’s being truthful. So what’s wrong with me? Why can’t I figure it out?

Dixon pulled her phone and started tapping away. She stopped, dropped it into her lap, and waited. A moment later, it buzzed and she lifted it to her ear. “Yeah.” She listened a second and then said, “Okay. Meet you there.” Dixon hung up, then yanked the gearshift into drive.

Vail, however, was still staring at the paper.

BRIX SUGGESTED THEY MEET at a restaurant, since none of the task force members had eaten anything for several hours. Dixon pulled into the parking lot, where a large landmark sign read “Brix - Restaurant Gardens Wine Shop.” Had this been another time, she would’ve thought Brix’s choice of eating at the Brix restaurant curious, but with the burden of the past few days weighing heavily, she was only concerned about getting some glucose into her brain and figuring out what the hell was going on.

As they approached the entrance along the dark walkway, patio chairs and coffee tables were occupied by a couple of women toking on cigarettes. Behind them, a wall of windows showcased a brightly lit gift shop stocked with tasteful artwork, wine racks, and clothing.

Near the large wood plank entry doors stood three men huddled in a circle: Brix, Gordon, and Mann.

Dixon and Vail greeted them, then Mann held open the door and they all filed in. The interior was well-appointed in warm woods and a wine motif. Oversize half barrels fitted with red upholstered seats lined the aisle to the left, serving as individual booths. Above, dozens of Chardonnay-shaped bottles jutted out from a central light fixture. Off to the right, on the far side of the restaurant, marble-topped oval tables sat in front of intimate two-seater couches. Perfect for the romantic couple winding down a day of wine tasting and sightseeing.

The kind of Napa experience Vail and Robby had envisioned when they went wheels up at Dulles.

Dixon took in the décor and said, “I’m not sure I can afford this.”

“Yeah, make that two of us,” Gordon said.

There were only a few couples scattered throughout the restaurant, a function of the late hour. Brix greeted the hostess, who was sporting a wide grin and hugging menus across her chest. She motioned for them to follow her.

Gordon jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “I need to hit the head.”

“Ditto,” Mann said. “Meet you at the table.”

“Karen,” Brix said as they continued past the bar to their right, “about a week ago when you got here, you asked me if I owned this place because of my name. I don’t. But I’m part owner of a winery, remember? I don’t do police work because I have to, I do it because I want to. So don’t worry about the cost. I got it handled.”

Brix led them alongside the barrel-walled booths and stopped opposite the servers’ pickup window, then reached out and pulled open a wood door to a private room. “The reserve wine cellar. It’s cozy and gives us the ability to talk about serial killers without disturbing the customers.”

“Good thinking—but this room is . . . ”

“Gorgeous. Elegant. Exclusive. I know.”

To their right, three windows looked out onto the main dining area. But the remaining walls—and ceiling—were lined with side-lying wine bottles encased in hardwood wine racks with dramatic top-down low-voltage lighting, creating an air of showcased uniqueness to each vintage.

“This is my first time in here,” Dixon said, perusing the magnum bottle of Anomaly Vineyards Cabernet. “Probably my last, too.”

Vail and Dixon settled down in chairs facing the windows. Brix took a seat opposite them, then engaged the waiter with a nod as the man entered the room. “Bring us a spread. Whatever you’ve got prepared. We’re hungry and we need some time to talk undisturbed. There’ll be five of us.”

“Yes sir,” the server said.

After he had left the room, Brix turned toward Vail and Dixon. “I know we’re under the gun. I realize you’re leaving in a few hours. And I know Detective Hernandez is still AWOL. But what the hell were you thinking? The warrant—” he lowered his voice and glanced around, even though they were in a private room. “The warrant was denied. You’re both vets here, you know the deal. I mean, what the fuck?”

“It was my call,” Vail said.

“No, Karen, it wasn’t your call. There was no call to make.”

Vail leaned back in her seat. She wasn’t in the mood for this. “What’s done is done. If it matters, it wasn’t a waste.”

“It doesn’t matter, because anything you think you may’ve gotten, it doesn’t count for shit.”

“Legally,” Dixon said, “that’s true. But it is significant.”

Mann and Gordon entered the room and, in unison, craned their necks to take in the décor.

“It’s nice,” Brix said. “We’ve covered it. Have a seat.”

As they settled in, Gordon said, “I take it you’re ripping them a new one.”

“I was just getting started.”

Dixon set both her elbows on the table. “Before you get too upset, the address we found was Ian Wirth’s.”

Gordon stuck out his pudgy hands, palms up. “So Ian Wirth’s address was found in Guevara’s house. Guevara’s company had a contract with the Georges Valley AVA board. Victoria Cameron was a board member and Isaac Jenkins’s business partner was on the board. Are you saying we’re back to thinking Guevara was involved in the Cameron and Jenkins murder? I thought we settled that when we caught Mayfield.”

“Not the least of which,” Brix said, “is that if Guevara’s wrapped up in that, there’s nothing we can do about it because you broke into his fucking house!” He took a breath, calmed himself, and lowered his voice. “Do you see what—”

“It’s not that,” Vail said. She brought both hands to her face and rubbed her bloodshot eyes. “The address. Yes, it was Wirth’s home address. But . . . ” She reached into her pocket and pulled out the paper. Laid it on the table in front of them. “What bothers me is that it’s written in Robby’s handwriting. And yes, before you ask, I’m sure.”

There was silence at the table. The waiter must’ve sensed the opening, because he slipped in with plates cradled across his left forearm. He deftly set them down across the center of the table and said, as he pointed, “Halibut wrapped in prosciutto. Grilled lamb chops with creamy spinach. Artisanal cheese plate with apple slices, spiced almonds, and dried dates. Clams, served with a warm sauce drizzled on top and presented on a bed of sea salt. Finally, fennel sausage pizza. Need anything else, please let me know.” He turned and left.

Austin Mann looked at Brix, who held up his hand. “I got it covered. Honest.”

They all stared at the food. Poking out from between the halibut and lamb chops was the Wirth address. It served as a barrier to the decadent treats in front of them.

“So what does this mean?” Mann finally said.

Vail sat back. “I’m at a loss. I’m too close. I can’t see it objectively. The obvious questions are, Why did Robby know César Guevara? Why did Robby write down Wirth’s home address? Why did he give it to Guevara? What’s Guevara’s relationship to John Mayfield?”

Dixon shook her head. “You’re getting ahead of yourself. We don’t know Robby knew Guevara. All we know is that Guevara was in possession of a piece of paper containing something Robby had written.”

“That’s true,” Brix said. “So let’s all calm down a minute.” He motioned to the food. “Eat. We need to get something in our stomachs.”

They hesitated until Brix himself grabbed a slice of pizza. Then Gordon, Mann, and Dixon dug in. Vail was the last to toss some food on her plate. She reluctantly stabbed at the halibut and scooped the fish into her mouth. But despite the promise of heavenly flavors, she didn’t taste anything.

“The pressing question,” Dixon said, “is why Robby had Ian Wirth’s home address. There’s just no obvious reason for that. Robby was on vacation. He didn’t know Wirth. He had no reason to know him.” She put down her fork, pulled out her phone, and scrolled through the log. “I need Wirth’s phone number.”

“He’s on the Georges Valley board, right?” Mann asked.

“Yes. And if Robby had any contact with Wirth, I want to know why.”

Brix leaned to the left and pulled a sheaf of papers from his right rear pocket. “You gonna call him now? Kind of late—almost 11:00.”

“It’s about his dead colleagues. I don’t think he’ll care.”

Brix read her the number. Dixon dialed, then rose and stepped outside the room.

“I wish Mayfield was conscious,” Vail said. “I’d like another crack at him. I didn’t do such a good job the first time around.”

“Bullshit,” Brix said. “You did great. That shit with making him talk to his mother, that was fucking brilliant. If your phone hadn’t rung—”

“If Ray hadn’t unloaded on him,” Gordon added, “things would be different.”

Vail lifted a shoulder, played with her food. “But my phone did ring. Ray shot Mayfield. And Robby went missing.” Saying the words, at the late hour with her flight looming, finally hit. She dropped her head to keep from bursting into tears—but it didn’t work.

“Ah, shit,” Brix said. He got up and moved to the other side of the table, beside Vail. Took her in his arms and let her bury her face in his chest. Her shoulders lifted and shuddered, and she grabbed his arms, wanting to escape the embarrassment, the pain, the stress, the strain of the past week.

Dixon walked back in and said, “What happened?”

Vail lifted her head, pushed away from Brix and grabbed her napkin. She stuck her elbows on the table and wiped the thick, rough cotton against her eyes. “I’m sorry. That shouldn’t have happened.”

“Nonsense,” Mann said. “Probably best that it did. You needed that release. We’re not robots, Karen. We go about our jobs seeing all sorts of shit—violence, greed, death, you name it—and we try to bury it. Well, sometimes, especially when it’s personal, it just fucking gets to you.”

She nodded, then reached for her glass and swallowed a mouthful of water.

Brix straightened out his shirt, then left the room.

“Thanks,” Vail said. “I—You’re right.”

Dixon held up her phone. “Wirth didn’t know a Robby or Roberto Hernandez, and said he didn’t remember having any contact with him.”

Gordon frowned. “Worth a shot.”

“But . . . he did receive a call a few days ago, a voice mail from some unidentified caller. Warning him that his life was in danger.”

“Why didn’t he call us?”

“He did,” Dixon said. “But Wirth didn’t get the message right away because they called a line for a small subsidiary of his. He doesn’t check it daily. Once he retrieved his messages, which was yesterday, he called the number on the card I gave him.”

“Which is your office line,” Mann said.

“Right. And I haven’t been to the office, and I haven’t checked my voice mail. I’ve been a little busy. He’s beefed up his security, just in case it wasn’t a prank.”

“He didn’t recognize the voice?” Vail asked.

“Nope.”

“So he’s got a guardian angel.”

“That guardian angel could be the key to all this. Someone who knows what’s going on—which is more than we can say for ourselves.”

“A guardian angel?” Brix was standing in the doorway holding an open bottle of red wine.

Dixon briefed him on the Ian Wirth phone call.

“Let’s get the audio over to the lab,” Brix said. “Have it analyzed.”

“Already asked him to save it.”

“Whaddya got there?” Gordon asked, wagging a stubby finger at the wine.

“Kelleher Cabernet,” Brix said, spinning the bottle to display the label. “From the owner’s own vineyard. Out there,” he said, gesturing out the windows. “Good stuff.” He reached across the table and poured a glass for Vail. “You need it.”

Vail took it and swallowed a mouthful. It was “good stuff,” as Brix said. By the second gulp it was hitting her bloodstream and she could feel the relaxation flowing through her arms, her legs, and her face.

She put down the glass and leaned back in her chair.

“Now get some more food into you,” Dixon said.

Rather than filling her plate, Vail said, “Aside from this mysterious guardian angel, there’s only one source of information right now.”

Brix held up a hand. “Stay away from César Guevara. We’ll need to take it slow with him. Put some guys on him, build a case. Get a warrant. Do it right.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Dixon glanced over at Vail, who was staring at her plate. Nudged her elbow.

“Yeah,” she said, at the prompt, “no problem.”

“Let’s look at what we’ve got so far,” Mann said. He lifted his prosthetic left hand and tapped the fingers on his right. “Blood evidence on the carpet of your B&B. A fair amount, but not really enough if he’d bled out. But enough if he’d been shot or stabbed, then moved. No results yet on matching the DNA to Hernandez. Then we’ve got the leather jacket found in Mayfield’s house. Hernandez’s?”

“I’m not sure,” Vail said.

Brix pulled his phone. “Aaron should’ve had something on that by now. Prints, DNA. Something.” He began thumb typing.

“We got Mayfield’s boast,” Mann continued. “‘There’s more to this than you know.”

“And,” Dixon said, “Robby’s phone logs were deleted. That might or might not mean anything. If he was the kind of person who regularly emptied out his phone, means nothing. But if someone did it for him, it could tell us a story: who called him or who he called before he disappeared.”

“Any way we can recover that data?” Gordon asked.

Vail swallowed another sip of wine. “I sent it back to the FBI. Theoretically, the lab should be able to read the memory. They were also supposed to get his logs from the wireless carrier. Haven’t heard anything yet.”

“That’s a big one,” Dixon said.

“I know, Roxx.” Vail’s tone was short. “I should’ve thought of it earlier, when I could’ve called the lab. I fucked up.”

Dixon placed a hand on Vail’s forearm to calm her. It worked.

Mann glanced over at Vail and said, “Where are we in finding Hernandez’s friend? The Sebastian dude.”

Brix shook his head. “Last I heard from NSIB, none of the names checked out. And we hit a zero with V. Sattui, the winery that sells the Madeira that Sebastian supposedly drinks. Customer listing, charge receipts, nothing. No one’s recognized Robby’s photo, either.”

“And,” Gordon said, “there’s the fact that Robby’s gone off the grid. No credit or debit card use. No hotels. Nothing at area hospitals or—excuse me, Karen—or at morgues. No plane, train, car rentals.”

“He had a car rental,” Brix said. “He would’ve just taken it if he left of his own choosing.” The sudden vibration of the phone in his hand nearly sent it careening to the floor. Brix angled his gaze down to read the text message. “Aaron—analysis of the leather jacket. He’s able to account for 14 out of 16 latents as—” He scrolled down and continued: “as belonging to Mayfield. The others were unidentifiable partials. Nothing on DNA. Too soon.”

“Doesn’t look like it’s Robby’s coat,” Vail said. She let her head fall forward into her hands and rubbed her temples. “I’m not sure if that’s good or bad.”

“It’s good,” Dixon said. “Anything that removes, or weakens, a connection between Robby and Mayfield is good in my book.”

Brix set down his phone and piled a few squares of cheese on his plate, followed by a couple of clams and a lamb chop. “But it does bring up the issue of James Cannon. He’s still in the wind. We’ve got about two dozen deputies and investigators looking for him. His photo has been sent around to LEOs in a hundred mile radius. I’ve even snagged a chopper to scour the woods with infrared. So far, nothing.”

“So it comes back to Guevara,” Mann said. “He’s got skin in the game, but we can’t prove it and we can’t nail it—or him—down.”

Vail sat there, the wine stirring her head in pleasant waves. Her lids felt the weight of a lack of quality sleep and an overabundance of stress. But through it all, the broad outlines of a plan began to form. It wouldn’t be something she could share with the others because they would explicitly forbid her from carrying it out. With time disappearing like a painter rolling a primer coat on a wall, covering all beneath it, she didn’t see a choice. They were beating their heads against a wall. At least, that was how she felt.

Vail pushed her chair back from the table. Her body had the heavy and sloppy movements indicative of high blood alcohol content. “I’d totally understand if you guys wanna knock off. Go catch some sleep. We haven’t had a whole lot of it lately.”

Brix and Dixon locked eyes, silently weighing the offer.

“Seriously, guys. I’m leaving for SFO in like four hours. Unless we’ve got something pressing to follow up on that’s not already being done, there’s no reason to work through the night. Again.”

Brix hiked his brow. “I guess you’re right. Let’s go catch forty winks, start fresh at 8:00 AM. Roxx?”

As the lead investigator, she had to make the call.

Dixon turned to Vail and read her face.

Shit, she knows I’m up to something. Here it comes.

“Yeah. Let’s call it a night. Keep your cells by your beds. Just in case.”

Make that a definite. She knows.

Brix wiped his napkin across his mouth, then threw the soiled cloth on the table. He stepped around the table and spread his arms. He gave Vail a firm hug, then leaned back. “Karen, I never, ever thought I’d say this . . . that first day we met we kind of got off on the wrong foot. But I’ve really enjoyed working with you. You challenge me—all of us. You make us better.”

Vail tilted her head. “I don’t know about that.”

“I mean it. It’s been an honor.”

“Same here.” She turned to Mann and Gordon. “All of you. Thanks for putting up with me. My attitude.”

“Hey,” Mann said, “you just wanna get the damn case solved. We may go about it in different ways, but . . . Well, Redd’s right. Thank you. If there’s anything we can do on our end—”

“We’ll keep working this,” Brix said. “Tomorrow morning, we’ll be right back at it. We’re gonna find Robby and we’re gonna find Cannon.”

Vail tightened her lips, then nodded appreciation.

“C’mon,” Dixon said. She led Vail away, back toward the car. Neither of them said a thing until they got inside. When the doors closed, Dixon pulled away and let loose.

28

I know you, Karen. You’re thinking of doing something stupid.” She turned to face Vail, her eyes hard and wide and angry. “And don’t fucking lie to me.”

“So after all we’ve been through these past seven or eight days, working in close quarters and dealing with all the shit we’ve dealt with, all you can say is that you know me and that I’m going to do something stupid?”

Dixon extended the fingers of her right hand, which remained on the steering wheel. “That didn’t come out right. I’m sorry. I just think, well, I think you’re reacting emotionally. I’m sure I’d be the same way if this had happened to me, with Eddie. If I could’ve prevented his death, had I known he was in danger . . . ” She curled her hand around the wheel. “So let’s cut through all the shit. Can you do that for me?”

Vail sat there a long moment. “Drop me at Guevara’s house, a couple blocks away—”

“See? That’s what I mean!”

“What do you expect me to do, Roxx? Guevara’s the only one who knows what the hell is going on.”

“And you’ve already tried prying information out of him.”

Vail turned and looked out the black side window at the quiet countryside. “So I’ll try again. And this time I won’t be so nice.”

“You weren’t very nice the last time around, either. Yesterday, when we stopped at Superior.”

“You mean when I shoved my Glock against his head?”

“I think that qualifies, yeah. But look at it logically. He’s got bodyguards. Even if you can neutralize them, they’re witnesses. So when his high-priced attorney files a complaint—which he will—there’ll be corroboration of his story. And the worst part is, he’ll be on the right side of the law. And you’ll be on the wrong side.”

“Just take me there. Let me worry about it.”

Dixon pulled the Ford hard right onto the shoulder. Gravel flew up and kicked around the wheel wells.

“What are you doing?”

“It’s goddamn obvious, Karen. I’m not going to let you throw away your career. You’re not thinking clearly.”

Vail turned away and again peered out the window. Rolled it down. The cool air blew against her face. Stole a glance in all directions. Pin-pricks of light here and there. But it was dark, too dark for her to figure out where she was. She grabbed the handle, opened the door, and swung out her legs.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

Vail did not reply. She flung the door closed and trudged off, ahead of Dixon’s vehicle, the headlights cutting through the damp air and slicing around her body, throwing it into silhouette.

At this time of year, it was still nippy at 12:30 or 1:00—or whatever time it was now. She wasn’t going to stop to look.

But what was she going to do? It wasn’t like she could hail a cab—not in the middle of the Napa countryside. She didn’t even know where she was. She stopped walking, put both hands on her head, and leaned her neck back. Her body swayed—the wine was still in her bloodstream. How did this happen? How did I get to this place?

She heard Dixon’s door open. She turned and saw that Dixon was talking to her through the windshield. No, not to her—to her Bluetooth visor.

Dixon stuck her head out the door and rose from her seat in one motion. “Get in the car!”

“What is it?”

“We got a twenty on Cannon.”

29

Vail ran back to the Ford but nearly flew out of the seat when Dixon floored the accelerator. The tires spun in the gravel, then squealed as they gripped asphalt.

Vail settled herself in and then snapped the seat belt closed. But the blood was pounding in her temples. The wine? The sudden dump of adrenalin? “What’s the deal?”

“Our chopper got an infrared hit in the area about three miles from where Cannon disappeared. They were tracking him at a high altitude through the mountains, and then he stopped moving. Based on the restrained motion within a confined space and the IR signatures of other bodies in the structure, it looks as though he entered a secluded house in the woods and might have hostages.”

“So what’s the plan?”

The speedometer needle effortlessly slipped past 72. Dixon, two hands on the wheel, said, “SWAT’s en route. We’re closer. Chopper’s surveillance only, it won’t be dropping anyone or landing.”

Vail rubbed her face and tried to excise the mounting pressure from her thoughts. She closed her eyes and audibly blew air through her lips.

“You okay?”

“Actually, pretty shitty. Thanks for asking.”

Dixon drove in silence, deftly negotiating the winding mountain roads—and Vail, remembering the challenging landscape from their last visit out this way, was not about to distract her with interruptions.

Dixon pointed skyward. “See if you can find the chopper. I think I know where this road is, but if we can use the chopper’s spotlight as a beacon to pinpoint the house’s location, it may keep us from driving off the side of the mountain.”

Vail craned her neck back, forth, and side to side—but couldn’t make out what looked like a helicopter. She rolled down her window— and within three minutes, in the distance, she saw blinking lights hovering against the inky blackness. “There she is, two o’clock. No beacon.”

“Probably best if Cannon doesn’t know we’re on to him. Grab the radio,” she said, tossing a nod at the glove box. “Primary channel. See if you can raise the pilot.”

Vail found the secure radio—it was only three days ago she’d handled this very device while they were in pursuit of John Mayfield. That had turned out well; if they replicated those results, it would be a hell of a send-off back east.

She glanced at the dashboard clock. Running out of time. Two and a half hours. Nothing’s ever easy, Karen, is it?

“What’s their call sign?”

“H-30. Flown by CHP.”

“CHP H-30, this is FBI Special Agent Karen Vail and Investigator Roxxann Dixon with the major crimes task force. We have you in sight. Do you have us? Over.”

“That’s affirmative, Agent Vail. This is Ken Orent commanding H-30. SWAT is en route. ETA eighteen minutes.”

Vail managed a chuckle. “A lot of shit can happen in eighteen minutes.” She thought back to a time many years ago when she had uttered a similar comment over an open radio channel, then sweated the likely ridicule from colleagues. Here and now, she didn’t give it a second thought.

“Pull over, Roxx. I need your full attention.”

Dixon stopped the car.

“What’s your procedure out here?”

Dixon shoved the gear into park. “H-30 will circle the area until ground units set up a perimeter. The patrol sergeant has already requested that SWAT respond. The SWAT team’s made up of officers from the Napa sheriff and the Napa city police. But because we’re an unincorporated county, the Sheriff’s Department runs the show. They’ll draw up a tactical plan, which’ll probably include setting up a perimeter closer to the house. We’d bring in our hostage negotiating team to attempt phone contact with the suspect.”

“Doesn’t sound like eighteen minutes to me. It’ll take them at least as long to get themselves set up and plugged in. Besides, James Cannon doesn’t want to talk to us, Roxx. Right now, he’s tired and freaked out and hungry and on the run. The people in there with him are in extreme danger.”

“No argument there. Your point?”

“What do you want to do?” Vail asked.

Dixon stole a look at Vail. It was fast, but it said, “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Vail brought the radio to her mouth. “Commander Orent, how many heat signatures do you have?”

“We count five. Four are stationary, one is mobile. Judging by their movements, we assume Mr. Mobile is our suspect. He seemed to clear all the rooms and herd the occupants into a main area in the center of the house.”

Vail swung her gaze over to Dixon. “You think Robby’s one of those hostages?”

Dixon shook her head. “No idea. Either way, no matter who he’s got—”

Vail keyed the radio. “What’s he doing now? Over.”

“He appears to be pacing back and forth. Over.”

“We’re going in. Copy?”

There was a long pause. Vail was ready to rekey the mike to repeat when suddenly Orent said, “You are instructed to wait for SWAT. Over.”

Vail let the radio fall back to her lap. “Do we need them?”

“I don’t want to go in with drawn guns and start a shootout because of a mistake. We don’t even have the street address. And these people who live in the mountains . . . who knows what kind of rifles they might have?”

“How would you normally handle something like this?”

“Assuming they’d run it the same way they take down pot farms, the H-30 will use GPS to give us the coordinates, and the ground units would plug them into their portable GPS devices. That’s how.”

“You have a GPS?”

Dixon started to shake her head, then stopped. “Let me check.”

She jumped out of the car and rummaged around the trunk. A moment later, she returned with a small canvas kit. “I usually don’t have one, but I borrowed one a couple weeks ago from a buddy in the department and forgot to return it. Fire it up.”

Vail did so, then keyed the mike. “Commander, we’re concerned about the wait. That’s a very violent offender in there. But my purpose is not to debate this with you. We understand you will not assist. Thing is, we’re going in and we need the GPS coordinates. We don’t have the address. It’s dark out and these houses don’t have neon signs out front that say ‘suspect’s in here.’” She paused, waited, then said, “Of course, I’d totally understand if you refuse.”

As the seconds passed, Vail and Dixon stared out the windshield before finally turning to each other. “Maybe he’s thinking about it,” Dixon said. “Or calling for approval.”

“Unable to comply, Agent Vail,” Orent said. “Over.”

Dixon shrugged. “It was worth a shot.”

“May’ve been worth a shot, but it didn’t get us anywhere.” A second later, Vail said, “There!” and jabbed a finger at the windshield, indicating a house about a hundred yards away. Moving slowly across the roof tiles was a pinpoint green laser beam.

Dixon was about to jam the gear into drive, but Vail grabbed her arm. “Leave it here,” Vail said. “We’re too close. Let’s go it on foot. If Cannon hears the car, we’re cooked and so are those hostages. Unless he’s aware of the chopper tracking him—which is possible but not likely. That ATV is a loud son of a bitch, and the chopper was purposely flying at a high altitude. We’re probably okay.”

“So why’d Cannon stop?”

Vail checked the dome light to ensure it was off, then quietly opened her door. “He’s been riding for hours. Probably hungry, tired. And his ass and balls hurt, I’m sure.”

“You sure you want to go in? SWAT will be here in ten minutes.”

“We both know we should wait,” Vail said.

Dixon sat there with her door ajar—but didn’t move. “Right.”

A crackle from the radio. “Agent Vail, we’ve got activity. Two individuals moved toward the rear of the structure and it appears that one exited the premises.”

“Copy,” Vail said. She leaned forward and shoved the radio in her back pocket. “Well, that solves that.” And off they went.

30

Traversing the steep mountainside in the dark made moving along the hilly terrain at Herndon Vineyards seem like child’s play. Vail slipped and slid on the damp forest floor, pine needles and low-lying ferns serving as snow discs that propelled her down and forward.

This would do wonders for her knee. At the moment, it didn’t matter.

They were moving reasonably well as they approached the house, which sat below street level in a large gulley carved out of the mountain. The rear of the home was suspended on pilings, leveling out the structure. A muted dimness from within suggested it emanated from one of the inner rooms, where light had a tough time escaping the confines of walls and doors.

Vail had moved thirty feet ahead while Dixon moved more deliberately. As Vail evaluated the area behind the house, Dixon lost her footing on the incline and slammed against a narrow eucalyptus stalk, chest first.

“Shit,” she said between clenched teeth.

Vail pulled her gun from its holster. “You okay?”

“Fine. I’ve got another boob on the other side.” Dixon pointed. “There’s the rear of the house. You see any movement?”

Vail shook her head. “Without night vision, we’re not gonna see much. I can’t even make out how many fingers you’re holding up.”

“I’m not holding any up.”

“My point exactly.” Vail moved forward, then stopped. “Hang back, cover me. Just in case Cannon sees me before I see him. No sense in giving him a shot at both of us.”

“You think he’s armed?”

“I wasn’t speaking literally, but then again, who the hell knows? It wouldn’t be his style—he killed his last vic up close and personal, which means he gets off on that, just like Mayfield. But does he have a gun? We know so little about him, it’s impossible to say.” Vail bent over. “Cover me.”

She scurried ahead, scampering as fast as she could without slipping and going down on the slick terrain. As she approached, what she saw made her pull up, which sent her into a slide—right into the slumped body of a male. In a leather jacket.

Vail felt a lump the size of a baseball blocking her throat. Robby? In the dark, it was hard to say. His body was folded and crumpled, almost fetal in its curve. She steadied herself, leaned over the man, then felt for a pulse. Not only did she not feel anything, but her fingers slipped on the unmistakable thick and slick liquid she knew as only one thing: blood.

She grabbed the jacket lapel and yanked—nearly slipping down the incline—and shined her BlackBerry light on the man’s face. Around the same age. Smaller. Not Robby. Actually, the guy’s face shared a resemblance with Dixon’s former boyfriend, Detective Eddie Agbayani, a victim of John Mayfield’s violence a couple of days ago. Vail hoped Dixon wouldn’t notice.

Dixon was now by her side. Vail looked up at and caught the whites of her partner’s eyes.

“It’s not Robby,” Dixon said.

“No.”

“Dead?”

“Dead. Trachea crushed. Wrists slit. My guess,” Vail said, “is that this is the man of the house, the father. The only true threat to Cannon. Take out your threat, then you can do whatever the hell you want. Common tactic among disorganized offenders who enter a house or apartment and find a boyfriend or spouse. Blitz attack, get ’em out of the way.” Vail reached into her back pocket and pulled the radio. Lowered the volume, then keyed the mike. “H-30,” she said in a soft voice. “This is Agent Vail. That heat signature you picked up exiting the building’s rear is a dead body. Early thirties male Caucasian. Looks like Cannon killed his only threat, to get him out of the way. Over.”

“Copy that. Relaying same to SWAT. Over.”

Vail leaned over to Dixon’s ear. “He could kill the others. And soon.”

“Why?” Dixon asked. “I thought he only killed this guy to get him out of the way.”

“Point of getting the male out of the way is so he can have his way with the women. On the other hand, if he knows the chopper’s located him, he’s under extreme duress.”

“Then in a matter of minutes, he’s going to be knuckling down, waiting for the police assault. And the chances of getting the hostages out alive will plummet like a bear market.”

Vail looked at the backdoor. “A bear out in the woods. Nice analogy. But SWAT’s less than ten minutes away now. At this point, I think we should let them handle it.”

Dixon looked at the man lying on the ground at their feet. Vail saw the way she appraised at the victim’s face, the way her lips tightened.

“It’s not Eddie,” Vail said.

“Fucking looks like him.”

Vail glanced at the house, her eyes checking things out. Then she leaned down to catch Dixon’s gaze. “Roxx, listen to me.”

“What’s his reaction going to be to an armed assault?”

“He won’t surrender, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“That is what I’m asking,” Dixon said. “Those hostages inside are in a heap of trouble. We have a window, before this escalates. I don’t think he knows we’re here. This is the best shot we’re gonna have. Right?”

Vail bit down on her lip. “Probably. Yes.”

Dixon rose from her crouch. “Then I’m going in. We approach from opposite angles, we’ve got him. He doesn’t have a gun.”

“How do we know that?”

“Because he didn’t shoot this guy. Looks like he did what Mayfield did: crushed his trachea, slit his wrists. That’s the way he kills.”

“We think that’s the way he kills. We don’t know enough about him to reach definitive conclusions about his behaviors, about his identity as a killer.”

“I’ve got all I need right here.”

“Roxx, don’t—”

Dixon started climbing the slick hill. “I’m going in the front. If you’re gonna help me out, count to sixty, then go in the back.” She stopped and turned. “You with me?”

Vail rubbed her forehead with the back of her hand, the one holding the Glock. I hate situations like this. You know it’s the wrong thing to do, but you have no choice. “Don’t get me killed, Roxx. I still have to find Robby. And I’ve got a kid, remember?”

“Then we’d better be careful. Sixty seconds. Fifty-nine Mississippi, fifty-eight Mississippi, and so on. On my mark. Ready?”

Vail nodded.

“Mark.” Dixon turned and scurried away. Into the darkness.

31

Vail made her way up the slippery wooden steps onto the deck that led to the backdoor. At least with wet wood there was less chance of a board squeaking under her weight.

Counting. Forty-five. Forty-four.

There were two windows, one on either side of the door, which was partially constructed of glass. She crept along, keeping herself low. Inspected the jamb and considered where she would need to strike the door to blast it inward. Because of its construction, she knew she could do it—using her good leg.

Thirty. Twenty-nine.

She put her ear to the crack in the weather seal, down below the window line. Listened. One, perhaps two, female voices whimpering. Maybe Roxx was right. Going in now before he killed someone else made sense. Didn’t it?

Seventeen. Sixteen.

Vail tightened her grip on the Glock. She would kick in the door, then go in low. It was always risky when you did not know the floor plan of the house you were infiltrating. Where was your target? Would you be immediately visible to him upon entry? And most disconcerting . . . did he have a weapon? In close quarters combat like this, a knife was often more dangerous than a handgun.

Infiltrate, rapidly assess: Was your immediate environment safe? Were your hostages in imminent danger? Had your appearance placed them in imminent danger?

Five. Four.

Vail stepped back—she was now in view of the home’s occupants should they choose to look—and brought her right leg up and then thrust it forward, just below the knob.

The jamb cracked and splintered, and the door flew open. Vail dropped to the floor and clambered into the room—it was the kitchen—and brought her back up against the wood cabinets. Listened.

Shouting—screaming.

Vail spun around the edge of the wall, Glock out in front of her, and moved down the carpeted hallway toward the light—and the commotion. There! In the family room, three females. One woman. Early thirties. Two girls, about eight and nine, sporting tear-streaked red cheeks.

No sign of James Cannon. Not good—he could be behind me, or he could be choking Dixon, right now—

Slamming noise. Loud, something smashing into a wall. Again, and again.

Vail followed the noise and stopped in front of the three women, whose wrists and ankles were bound with duct tape. A taut strip stretched across their mouths. “I’m gonna get you out of here, okay?” She quickly pulled off the mother’s gag, which elicited a whimper. Vail ignored it. “Scissors?”

“In the drawer,” the mother said. “The desk—”

Vail swung around and found the piece of furniture three strides away. Grabbed the scissors, cut the ankle bindings. “Out the back,” she said. “Go!”

She would be sending them where the woman’s husband and the girls’ father was lying dead—but their physical safety was of paramount importance. Their mental health could be addressed later.

Now. Find Dixon.

A loud thump. A groan.

Vail slipped out of the family room, then moved down the hallway toward the front door. There, laid out face up on the carpet was James Cannon—and Dixon astride him, pounding away at his face. “Roxx!”

Another punch.

Vail ran forward and grabbed the back of Dixon’s shirt. “Roxx, enough!”

Dixon’s shoulders rose and fell with rapid heaves as she got up and stumbled backward. Vail almost gasped when she saw her partner’s face: red welts over the left eye, which was already swollen half shut. A bruise across her right cheek.

Cannon didn’t look much better: his mouth, which hung open, was bloody, his teeth coated a slasher-film burgundy.

“Cuffs,” Vail said, then swung her Glock into her holster. As Dixon handed them over, Vail asked, “Where’s your SIG?”

Dixon looked left, then right, then paced up and down the hallway. Vail knew she would want to locate it before SWAT arrived on scene. Having your sidearm taken from you in a confrontation was embarrassing—and bordered on incompetent.

Vail pulled the radio from her back pocket. “H-30, this is Vail. All secure. Repeat. All secure. Suspect in custody. Request ambulance.”

“Roger that, Agent Vail.”

Dixon came up to her, SIG in hand. She slipped it into her holster without offering a word.

“So what happened?”

“I came through the door, and he was on me as soon as I stepped through. We both landed some good shots, but I think I got the worst of it. I went down and he came at me, but I landed a hard kick in his steroid-shrunken balls. That was all I needed. I got to my feet and kneed him pretty hard in the face. Broke his nose, for sure. He staggered back and I landed a few good blows. He went down, and a couple punches later, you appeared.”

“A couple punches?”

Dixon flexed her swollen right hand. “Maybe a few more.”

Red, blue, and white lights strobed through the drawn window curtains, projecting a nervous energy onto the far wall. The thumping beat of the H-30’s rotors intensified, indicating that the chopper had dropped to a safe distance above the house. Vail felt the vibration in her chest, and she fought the urge to cough or bang it to dislodge the discomfort.

She made her way to the backdoor and saw the helicopter’s white beacon bathing the rear yard in light. A CSI Vail hadn’t yet met was slipping and sliding toward the dead body lying on the wet bed of pine needles and mud.

“Karen!”

Dixon’s voice. She made her way back to the front door. The SWAT commander would no doubt be entering the house any minute. But as Vail approached, she realized that wasn’t why Dixon had called her. James Cannon was regaining consciousness.

Dixon was standing a few steps away from him, her SIG drawn and in her right hand, extended and pointed at his chest. Inviting him to make a threatening move.

He pushed himself backward against the front door and now sat half reclined, canted left, his shoulder pressed to the wall. His hands were cuffed behind his back. He did not look comfortable—or pleased.

Vail approached and stopped ahead of Dixon, at Cannon’s feet. She crouched and rested her forearms on her thighs. “Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy. You fucked up real bad. You had everything going for you. Working at an up-and-coming winery, possibly slated to be the wine maker in five to ten years if you learned the business well and proved yourself. Forgive me for asking, but what the hell were you thinking?”

Cannon’s right eye narrowed. “You’re not as pretty as I thought you were when we met in the gym. Asking you out . . . yeah, what the hell was I thinking?”

Vail grinned. “That’s good. I believe in giving credit where it’s due. But we don’t have a lot of time here, Jimmy. So I’m gonna come straight with you. I’m serious—was the wine thing a cover or did you really have intentions of being a wine maker?”

Cannon’s gaze fell to his lap. “I took enology in college. I wanted to be a wine maker.”

“Until John Mayfield came into your life. Then you saw something that interested you more. Right?”

Cannon pouted his lips and nodded imperceptibly. A concession without an embarrassing admission.

“Okay, Jimmy,” Vail said. “I understand.”

Jiggle of the door knob. Pounding knock. “Napa County Sheriff’s Department. Captain Dave Nash. Open up!”

“This is Special Agent Karen Vail, FBI. We’re okay in here. Suspect is secured. We’ll be out in a minute.”

“If the suspect is secured, open—”

“My partner’s coming out,” Vail said. She gestured to Dixon, who made her way toward the garage. She would run interference with Nash while Vail finished her interview.

“Jimmy. How much did you work with John Mayfield? Did you know what he was doing?”

Cannon firmed his lips and turned away.

Okay, he’s not ready to answer that one. “Here’s what I think happened. You two found each other in the gym, and Mayfield tested the waters, told you about some animals he’d killed when he was young. And you were interested. More than interested. Intrigued. So he took a risk and told you about some people he’d killed. And it excited you. So he told you more. And it made you feel different, alive, like something woke up inside you. That sound about right, Jimmy?”

Cannon glanced quickly at Vail. “Something like that.”

Vail knew, even with Dixon out front running cover, she didn’t have much time. Time to get to the nuts and bolts.

She reached into her pocket and pulled out the photo of Robby. “You recognize this guy?”

Cannon looked at the picture. His gaze remained steady. “I’ve seen him, but I don’t remember where.”

Vail leaned in closer—unwise, for sure, but she couldn’t help herself. “You’ve seen him? When?”

Cannon turned away, his eyes rolling left, then right, then up. “Can’t remember. Recently. Past couple days, I think.”

“What was he doing? Where’d you see him?”

Banging on the door. “Agent Vail, open up. Now.”

“Suspect is wedged against the door. Come in through the garage.” She turned back to Cannon. “Where’d you see him?”

Cannon closed his eyes. “I feel like shit. My head’s gonna explode. Can we do this later?”

Vail clenched her teeth. I’m getting on a fucking plane in about ninety minutes. No, we can’t do this later.

“That’s my last question, Jimmy. Answer it and I’ll see to it they give you something for the pain in the ambulance.”

He let his head fall back against the door.

“Agent Vail.”

Voice behind her. Stern, deep. No nonsense. The guy from the other side of the door. Dave Nash.

She did not turn around. Her eyes were stuck on Cannon’s face like epoxy.

Captain Nash grabbed Vail by her shoulder and moved her back. She lost her balance and fell on her buttocks.

“Can you get the hell out of the way so we can do our jobs?” Nash asked.

Vail pushed herself up. Please, just answer my question. I need this piece to the puzzle. “Where’d you see him?” she yelled.

Cannon tightened his face. “I can’t remember. Now leave me the hell alone. My head’s fucking killing me.”

Vail felt a hand on her arm, leading her away. It was Dixon.

“C’mon,” she said by Vail’s ear.

Vail followed her outside. A mist, foglike and thick, hovered around the first responder vehicle lights. The cool moisture prickled Vail’s cheeks.

The SWAT Peacekeeper, a military-modified Dodge Ram truck sporting an armored shell, was parked in front of the house. Several men milled about, one smoking a cigarette, another leaning against the vehicle. The helicopter hovered above, much louder outside than it had been inside. As Vail craned her head skyward, the H-30 began moving off, the beacon becoming weaker and more dispersed as the craft rose.

Two paramedics, standing beside an ambulance that was parked a dozen feet back of the Peacekeeper, snapped into action and wheeled a gurney to the front door.

“He said he saw Robby.” Vail was watching the scene unfold and spoke so softly Dixon almost didn’t hear her.

“You showed him the photo?”

“He said he’d seen him. Couldn’t remember where.”

Two headlights appeared in the distant darkness, speeding down the street toward them. The vehicle screeched to a halt behind the ambulance. Brix and Stan Owens poured out of the car and headed toward Vail and Dixon.

“Nice of you to tell me,” Brix said to Dixon.

“We were kind of busy responding to the situation. He killed the father and dumped the DB out the back. So we went in.”

“You went in? SWAT was en route.”

“We didn’t think there was time. There were three other hostages.” Owens folded his arms. “Obviously we’re gonna need to discuss that. Later. What’s the current status?”

“Cannon’s in custody.”

Vail said, “I showed him Robby’s photo. He said he’d seen him, but he couldn’t remember where.”

“You believe him?” Brix asked.

Before Vail could answer, Dave Nash joined their circle. “Sheriff,” he said, with a nod at Owens.

“Report.”

“Victim’s in the rear of the property being processed by CSI Bruno Rancelli. Suspect James Cannon’s being treated and readied for transport under guard to Valley Med. He’s in and out of consciousness. Medic’s concerned he might have a subdural hematoma.” Nash glanced sideways at Vail and Dixon. “He apparently took a beating.”

“Necessary force to bring down the suspect,” Dixon said. “And self-defense.”

Owens seemed to notice the bruises on Dixon’s face for the first time. “I don’t think there’ll be a problem with that. But before Rancelli takes off, have him snap some photos of you. CYA.”

“Also,” Nash said, “Cannon wanted me to deliver a message to Agent Vail.” He turned to her and said, “Before he lost consciousness, he mumbled a name.”

Brix nearly shouted, “What name?”

Nash scratched at his temple. “I don’t know if this makes any sense, but sounded like he said, ‘Sissy Guava.’”

32

César Guevara?” Vail asked.

Nash lifted his hat and brushed back his hair. “Yeah, could be. But that’s all he said. Mean something to you?”

Brix grunted. “You could say that.”

“Why would he say Guevara’s name?” Owens asked.

The doors to the ambulance slammed shut and its light bar began swirling as it pulled away from the house, James Cannon tucked into its rear compartment.

Vail watched another piece to the puzzle being whisked away down the road, evaporating into the dark fog, the siren remaining long after visual contact had been lost. “I showed Robby’s—Detective Hernandez’s—photo to Cannon, and he said he’d seen him but couldn’t remember where. I guess he’s saying he saw him somewhere that’s associated with Guevara.”

Dixon began to gently massage her inflamed hand. “We’re missing the bigger picture. Why would James Cannon know César Guevara?”

“Obvious answer,” Brix said, “is that Cannon is a manager at a start-up winery, and they were talking with Superior Mobile Bottling about contracting for their services.”

“That’s one explanation,” Vail said, stifling a yawn. “Another might be that there’s a connection somehow between John Mayfield, James Cannon, and César Guevara. A connection we haven’t figured out yet.”

Dixon stretched her arms above her head. “We know there’s a connection between Cannon and Mayfield. Mentor and student. And Ray said on the DVD that he thought there was some kind of connection between Mayfield and Guevara.”

“So what does all this mean?” Owens asked.

Dixon looked up at the black sky. The air was calmer now, without the beating rotors of the helicopter whipping at the treetops. “It means we don’t know enough to figure it out yet.”

Brix pulled his phone. “I’ll get Mann over to Valley Med, so he’s there when Cannon arrives. If he regains consciousness, maybe we can get some clarification. And I’ll talk with Cap Krandle at Herndon in the morning, see if they’d had any discussions with Guevara about using Superior.”

“Nothing left for us to do here,” Dixon said. While Brix was waiting for the line to connect, she said, “We’ll pick up Karen’s stuff at my place, then head over to the hospital until she leaves for the airport.”

“Yeah, Austin, it’s Brix.” He nodded at Dixon, and Dixon and Vail said good-bye to Owens, then climbed into their vehicle.

Vail snapped her seatbelt then let her head fall back against the seat. Yawned wide and loud. “I’m so damn tired. And we’ve got so little to show for all our time and effort. I’m out of here in—” she checked the dashboard clock—“about an hour fifteen.”

Dixon turned over the engine and brought the Ford around to head back the way they had come. “For the moment, you’re still here. The fat lady ain’t singing just yet.”

“You’ll let me know when, right?”

Dixon managed a grin. “Yeah. I’ll let you know when.”

33

They arrived at Dixon’s house twenty minutes later. Vail scooped up her measly belongings—her clothing and personal effects greatly reduced in number and volume by the fire Scott Fuller and his conspirators had set a few days earlier. As she gathered everything into a pile, her thoughts shifted to a few nights ago, when John Mayfield had injected Vail with BetaSomnol, a powerful sedative, then used her Glock to kill Fuller. It set off a major confrontation with Sheriff Owens, which Robby squelched by tossing Owens onto his rump.

Scott Fuller vanished from her thoughts when she felt a nudge on her forearm. She turned to see Margot looking at her, wanting attention. Vail sat down on the floor and Margot jumped into her lap. Quinn came running over, and having lost the “prime real estate” to Margot, took up the next best location—alongside Vail’s thigh.

With a hand on each dog, Vail felt soothed by their curly fur. She got as much comfort from stroking them as Margot and Quinn seemed to be getting from the human contact.

Dixon walked into the room and gathered Vail’s soiled towel and bedsheets.

“Maybe I need one of these,” Vail said as Margot reached back and gave Vail a lick on the cheek.

“Standards are terrific dogs. Extremely smart, very athletic and physical, and they live for the human connection. Great companions—and excellent watchdogs. A lot of upkeep, though. Trimming their coats, keeping their fur free of tangles—”

“Seems like it’s worth it.”

“I don’t regret it for a minute.”

Vail patted Margot’s chest and the dog disengaged herself from Vail’s lap. Vail pulled herself off the floor and grabbed what amounted to an overnight bag.

She said good-bye to Margot and Quinn, then left the house with Dixon. En route to Napa Valley Medical Center, Vail called the car service that Gifford’s secretary, Lenka, had arranged, and gave them the new address where she was to be picked up.

When they arrived, Vail sat in Dixon’s Ford, staring out the windshield at the ER bay. “When were we here with Mayfield?”

“A couple days ago?”

Vail brought both hands to her face and rubbed at her eyes and cheeks. “This has been a week from hell.”

Dixon popped open her door. “Look on the bright side. When was the last time you caught two serial killers in one week?”

Vail gave Dixon a weary look. “Nice try, Roxx. But until I find out what happened to Robby—or find him alive—I won’t consider the past ten days a success.”

Dixon got out and closed her door. “I think you’re being too hard on yourself.”

They made their way into the ER and found the charge nurse. Cannon had been brought in, triaged, and sent directly to the OR. “Brain surgery. No telling how long he’ll be in there.”

“What was wrong?”

“Subdural hematoma. That’s bleeding in the brain due to traumatic—”

“Yeah, we got that part,” Vail said. “Thanks.”

“Roxxann.”

Behind them, Austin Mann was approaching. He looked surprisingly fresh for nearly 3:30 in the morning.

“Cannon’s in surg—”

“We know,” Vail said. “You get a chance to talk with him before they took him back?”

Mann twisted his mouth. “No such luck. Came in unconscious.”

Vail looked around for a seat. Ahead and down the hall was the waiting room. She led the way and wearily lowered herself into a chair. “So that’s it.”

“Hey, we’re not giving up,” Mann said. “Just because you’re gettin’ on that plane doesn’t mean this is ‘case closed.’ We’re still gonna work it. Soon as Cannon is conscious, he and I will have a chat. We learn anything, we know where to find you.”

Vail’s BlackBerry buzzed. She sighed, then lifted it out of its holster. “Vail.” She listened a moment, then said, “You’re early.” She pulled herself straight in the chair and said, “I’ll be right out. Yeah, in the back, by the ambulance bay.”

Vail shoved her phone onto her belt, looked at Dixon and Mann, then stood up. They rose as well.

“There’s nothing more to do here,” Mann said. “At this point, ten, fifteen minutes isn’t going to make a difference.”

“I don’t want to leave.”

Dixon gave Vail’s shoulder a squeeze. “It’s time to go.”

Vail smirked. “I think the fat lady is singing, Roxx.”

Dixon gave her a firm hug. “The fat lady doesn’t sing under my watch, Karen. She’s not even here.”

Vail turned and shook Mann’s hand, thanked him, then headed off to grab her bag from Dixon’s car.

As the cool night air struck her cheeks, she thought back to when she and Robby landed at SFO. The time ahead full of promise, fun, play, and relaxation. And now, as she settled into the rear seat of the black Towne Car, she wished she could have a “do over.”

If only I hadn’t insisted on working the Victoria Cameron case. If only I’d taken Robby’s advice and let it go. If only she had done nothing that she had done.

Things would be different. Robby would be here with her. And she wouldn’t feel the empty void that now enveloped her like a straitjacket.

PART 2

TRACTION

Washington Dulles International Airport

Fairfax & Loudoun Counties

Dulles, VA

The flight home was uncomfortable. Vail hadn’t expected to sleep, but the woman next to her seemed to have bathed in some horrendous floral perfume—enough to perfuse every passenger on the plane. It irritated Vail’s nose and she launched into a sneezing fit multiple times throughout the flight. And there was nothing she could do about it. There were no vacant seats—but she wasn’t sure any seat was far enough away to evade the offensive scent.

After landing and powering up her phone, Vail e-mailed Dixon to ask if anything had broken while she was in the air. Dixon replied immediately: “Cannon’s no help. Amnesia. Hang in there.”

Now, standing in a Dulles restroom before heading out, she caught a glimpse of her face in the mirror. It may not have been a red-eye, but she exhibited all the manifestations of it. Add in the bruises and cuts, and she looked like a boxer who’d gone twelve rounds and lost. Felt like one, too.

She passed a coffee kiosk and grabbed a shot of espresso—full octane to get her brain and body moving—and went out to the curb, where Detective Paul Bledsoe was due to pick her up.

It was a quarter past five and the early evening was masked by a gray, depression-draped sky. Vail was not dressed for the weather, which she estimated at around 45 degrees. She waited just inside the doors until she saw Bledsoe arrive out front. She tossed her overnight bag into the backseat and climbed into his department-issued Crown Victoria.

“Where’s your luggage?”

“It ended up being reduced to fine dust and aerosolized into the Napa air.”

Bledsoe pulled away from the curb and entered the airport traffic, which was headed en masse toward other terminals—and the exit. He looked at her for additional explanation.

“Long story.”

“With you, I know better than to ask.” He merged left and followed the exit sign. “So, this case your boss brought you back for. Know anything about it?”

“Not a whole lot. I wasn’t paying much attention, other than trying to get out of having to come home. Robby’s still missing and when I left, we still had a lot of unanswered questions.”

Bledsoe leaned forward in his seat to check his mirror, then changed lanes. “Make any progress?”

Vail bobbed her head from side to side. “I guess ‘progress’ is a relative term.” She summarized what had transpired the past ten days with surprising detachment.

“Hopefully your luck’s gonna turn,” Bledsoe said as he entered the interstate. “I’m taking you over to meet my guy, name’s Hector—”

“DeSantos. I remember. You really think he can help?”

“Don’t know. But he’s got access to people and information most law enforcement agencies don’t even know exist.”

“Hope you’re right. I’m tired and pissed off and desperate.”

“Good,” Bledsoe said with a grin. “So nothing’s new.”

That brought a smile to Vail’s face. “I guess, in a sense, it’s good to be home.”

He elbowed her, then accelerated.

DESPITE THE RUSH HOUR TRAFFIC, they arrived at the D.C. location of Clyde’s a quarter past six. They started to put their names down, but Bledsoe made a point of brushing his sport coat back, which had the effect of flashing a little brass of his badge. Whether or not it made a difference, Vail didn’t know, but they were seated within ten minutes. From what she knew of Clyde’s at prime dinnertime, that was pretty damn good.

They were ushered up the grand staircase, past the hostess station, and into the strikingly ornate dining room. Elaborate blown glass dish- shaped light fixtures hung from the walnut wood ceiling, suspended by multiple wires that splayed out from a central point, providing just enough illumination to be romantic without being dark. Square columns rose throughout the room, dividing it into private dining areas.

Plate clanks, utensil clinks, and inspired chatter rose from the patrons. It was either a good place for a covert conversation or a bad one: you might not be able to hear what the other person at your table was saying—but neither would an eavesdropper hovering nearby.

They settled into a booth along the far wall, where gold leaf frames hung suspended adjacent to one another, covering the expansive wall. A busboy delivered a flat aluminum pitcher, embossed with black letters that read “Filtered Water.”

“You ever been here before?” Bledsoe asked.

Vail was still taking in the décor. “First time.”

“Everything’s good. The sandwiches fit my budget and are delish. Especially the Reuben and the grilled Portobello.”

Vail peeled open her menu and her eyes caught sight of the crab cakes. Her stomach growled. Without looking up, she asked, “So where’s Mr. DeSantos?”

“Call me Hector. I won’t tell you what my friends call me.”

Vail looked up. Standing there was a man a couple inches over six feet, impeccably dressed in a dark pinstripe suit with small-rimmed designer glasses.

“Where’d you come from?”

“Originally?” DeSantos asked. “That’s classified.”

Vail frowned. “Look, Mr.—Hector. I’m in a real shitty mood. I’ve just had the week from hell chasing down two serial killers. My boyfriend’s missing. More than that, believe me, you don’t want to know.”

Bledsoe slid over in his seat. DeSantos sat, then folded his hands on the table in front of him.

“You think you’ve got a lock on shitty weeks? Believe me, you don’t want to hear some of mine.” He looked hard at her, his eyes boring into hers, reinforcing what he had just told her.

Vail had no urge to push him on that assertion.

Bledsoe, apparently concerned over the icy start to their conversation, said, “I’ve asked Hector here because he can help.”

DeSantos held up a hand. “We don’t know that.”

“Yes,” Bledsoe said firmly, “we do.”

DeSantos shook his head and looked away to his left, into the open end of the room. “I’m only here because I owe you. There are no guarantees I can offer you anything of value.”

Vail closed her menu and looked at Bledsoe. “This is a waste of time.”

“No, it’s not. Just tell Hector what you know.”

Before Vail could answer, the waitress appeared, ready to take their order. DeSantos, who hadn’t even looked at the menu, ordered first. “You have steak?”

The waitress pointed at the closed menu in front of Bledsoe. “We’ve got a grilled sixteen ounce rib eye with—”

“Perfect.”

“I’ll have the Rueben,” Bledsoe said.

Vail handed over her menu. “Salmon for me.”

The woman asked a few more questions, then left.

Bledsoe gestured to Vail to pick up the conversation.

“Robby—Roberto Enrique Umberto Hernandez. Thirty years old, detective with Vienna PD.”

“Little Vienna? They have detectives on their force?” He looked at Bledsoe. “I’m serious.”

“Yes, Hector, they’re a real PD and they’ve even got real detectives.”

“So Robby and I were in Napa,” Vail said, “and I was working the Crush Killer case, and he was out sightseeing and wine tasting.”

DeSantos held up a hand. “So if Robby wasn’t working the case with you, why did he tag along to California?”

“I didn’t go there to work. It was supposed to be a vacation for both of us. But it didn’t work out that way.” Vail felt a pang of guilt in her abdomen. Heck, it was more than a pang. It was a lancing wound.

“So from what little Bledsoe told me,” DeSantos said, “your friend’s gone.”

“That’s about it. Cell left in the room, log deleted. Everything there, even his car. A bloodstain on the carpet, near the bed, cleaned up. We’re awaiting DNA on the blood. We did the usual workup, but no one had seen him around. He had a friend, some guy named Sebastian, but we couldn’t find a Sebastian in the whole freaking region who knew Robby. Wait, that’s not true—what I said before, about no one seeing Robby. Someone had seen him. The serial killer we grabbed up last night recognized Robby when I showed him a photo. He wasn’t sure where he’d seen him, but then he left me a message that seemed to suggest he’d seen Robby with a guy named César Guevara.” Vail then provided further details, including background on César Guevara and his Superior Mobile Bottling business.

DeSantos leaned back, his head tilted, processing all the info. He looked at his water glass, lifted it, and took a drink. Finally he said, “This is some fucked up shit, Agent Vail. I don’t know what to make of it. Or where to even begin.”

“Call me Karen. And I know very well what we’re dealing with. Thanks for your expert assessment.” She looked at Bledsoe, thinking, So far this has been real helpful.

“You don’t even know if he’s still alive. Chances are good he’s not. Are you prepared for that?”

“No, Hector, I’m not prepared for that. Would you be prepared to accept the death of a loved one if she went missing, without doing everything in your power to find her?”

DeSantos seemed agitated. He glanced at Bledsoe but did not look at Vail.

Bledsoe said, “Hector went through the death of a loved one. He knows what it’s like. I don’t think he made that comment lightly.”

“I didn’t,” DeSantos said. “And the facts are that after the first forty-eight hours—”

“I’m not some ill-informed civilian. I know what the deal is with missing persons. That’s why I’ve been running myself ragged. Because I know that every minute that passes, the likelihood of finding him, if he is still alive—” She felt her throat catch and stopped.

DeSantos sucked on his cheek a moment, then said, “I’ve got some materials Bledsoe put together for me. I’m going to review them tonight and poke around. But I want to be totally honest with you. I’m probably going to have to dig deeper, use resources that should only be used for sensitive government work. Robby going missing is a personal case. At best, it’s a local case for Napa County to deal with.”

“That’s not tr—”

DeSantos held up a hand. “I deal with issues where national security’s at risk, where thousands, tens of thousands, or millions of lives are at stake. To use my resources for one life . . . ”

“Rewind a bit, Hector,” Bledsoe said. “If you were sitting in Karen’s seat—”

“I get your point,” DeSantos said firmly. “I already said I’d help and I’ll honor that. You know me, you know I’m good for that. But you’ve gotta understand there are limits. That’s just the way it is. Because if I step too deep into the shit, the director will be on my ass. I know him personally, and I try to keep my relationship with him in a good way.”

Their food came, and Vail looked at the salmon in front of her. The presentation was exquisite and the aroma rising from her food did not disappoint. But she had lost her appetite. Robby was on her mind. She thought of all the serial killer victim families she had met over the years. Most at least knew the fate of their loved ones. Robby was gone. Alive? Injured? Dead? Tortured? Inhumanely disposed of? Not knowing was an internal torment she would have to deal with for now. It would fuel her hunger for finding him. Or finding answers to what had happened to him—and why.

Then she would catch whoever was responsible. And make him pay.

35

Bledsoe dropped Vail at home. She said a few words to the cop Fairfax County had assigned to watch over Jonathan, and then trudged up to her front door.

The porch light was out, making the area darker than usual. She made a mental note to change the bulb. For safety’s sake, it’s the least she could do. Lighting and trimmed shrubs were as important as locks . . . they acted as deterrents and indicated to a would-be offender that the occupant was aware of her environment and personal security.

Before Vail could bring up a fist to knock, the wooden door swung open. Her Aunt Faye was standing there, a dishrag in hand. “Well, well, well. I was beginning to wonder if you were ever going to come home.”

Vail pulled on the screen door, then gave her aunt a hug. “It’s good to be home.”

Faye squinted, looking around Vail at the dark stoop. “Where’s your luggage?”

Vail lifted her arm, revealing the day bag. “I packed light.”

“Nonsense,” she said, looking intently into Vail’s eyes. “I remember you leaving with a large suitcase.”

Vail moved into the house and tossed her bag onto the couch. “Let’s just say it’s a long story and leave it at that.”

“Did your friend drop you off? Robby, isn’t it?”

“He’s—no, another friend of mine brought me home.”

Faye leaned in closer, then turned on the living room light. She made a point of studying Vail’s face. “What on earth happened to you?”

“Me?” You don’t want to know. Trust me. She forced a phony smile. “All in a week’s work. There’s nothing I won’t do for the Bureau.”

“Uh-huh.” She turned her head away, viewed Vail from the corner of her eyes. “So what was it, really?”

“A case. It got a little rough. Good thing is the bad guy got the worst of it.”

“Your work is so dangerous, Kari. I don’t know why you do it.”

Vail wasn’t going to be baited into this discussion. She was not in the mood to discuss it. Instead, she stepped into the hallway. “Jonathan home?”

“In his room.”

Vail took another few steps to his door. Knocked. No answer. Napping? Not likely at 8:00 PM. Tried the knob—unlocked—so she walked in. Jonathan was sitting at his desk, his back to her, large black gaming headphones covering his ears and his Xbox 360 controller in his hand.

She came up behind him and tapped him on his shoulder. He twisted his neck quickly up and back—saw his mother—and set the controller down and pulled off the headset in one motion.

He rose to give her a hug but stopped an arm’s length away. “What happened to your face?”

“All in a day’s work. No big deal. Looks worse than it is.” She took him in her arms and gave him a squeeze. “How was Aunt Faye?”

“Fine.”

Vail sat on the edge of his bed. “I hope you two spent some time together. It was awfully nice of her to come out here to stay with you. Did you make her feel welcome?”

“We went out to dinner. And we caught a few movies.”

“Good, good. Did you get to know her?”

He bobbed his head. “Yeah. We talked. She’s easy to talk to.”

Vail’s brow rose. “Good. That’s good to hear. I’m glad you two connected. She hasn’t seen you in, well, a good five years. I doubt you remember her.”

“We went to some state fair with her and she took me for ice cream. That’s pretty much all I remember. She said we used to go to her house for a barbecue on the Fourth, but I don’t remember any of that.” He leaned back in his chair. “So is Robby coming by? I just unlocked a new character and I wanted to show him how I did it. He’s gonna be so fucking jealous.”

“Watch your mouth, please.” She felt hypocritical—she was admittedly free with the expletives at times, but tolerating it from her son was a different matter. Of greater concern was what she should tell Jonathan about Robby. The truth was always best. But in this case, was it? Was lying to her son the lesser of two evils? “I don’t think Robby’s coming by, sweetie. Not for a while.” There we go. Spoon it out until he stops asking questions—and maybe he’ll satisfy his curiosity before she has to go into detail.

“You two broke up?”

Vail waved a hand. “No, nothing like that. We had a great time in Napa.” Of the time we had together. Before he vanished. She rose from the bed and swept a hand across his cheek.

“Hey,” he said. “What’s up with that cop who’s following me around? It’s annoying.”

“Just a precaution, sweetie. I don’t want my work spilling over into my personal life.” Now there’s a novel idea. “Shouldn’t be too much longer.” She pointed at his Xbox. “Get back to your game. I’m going to go unpack.” Jonathan slipped on his headphones and Vail walked out.

36

Care to tell me what really happened in California?”

Vail let go of Jonathan’s doorknob and turned to see Faye standing in the hallway, hands on her hips.

She was tired and mentally drained. Now was not the best time. Still, she owed Faye some explanation. And she needed to ask her for a favor.

Vail walked back toward the living room and they sat down next to each other on the couch. Not two months ago, she and Robby were making out on this sofa, headed toward a promising future, despite a brief interruption by the Dead Eyes killer.

“How was your visit with Jonathan?”

Faye’s face brightened and broadened into a grin. “I wasn’t sure what to expect, but I rather enjoyed it. We had some good talks. About his father. He had some unanswered questions.”

Vail sighed. She had talked with Jonathan about what happened between her and Deacon but held back some of the details. She wasn’t sure what the raw truth would do to a young teen and his place in the world. Then again, it was no secret to Jonathan that his father had turned into an abusive deadbeat. And Vail explained to her son that Deacon was a different person when she had met and married him. It was a good lesson as to the depths one can sink when a perfect storm of mental imbalance, medication indifference, and the spiral of depression conspire to bring down a person to the nadir of human suffering.

“How’d he take the answers?” Faye had a background in counseling, so Vail was not surprised that she had broached the topic with her nephew.

“Very maturely, I thought. He had a healthy perspective. I think he’ll be fine. So—your trip.”

“It started out wonderful and I stuck my nose where it shouldn’t have been. I got involved in a case. And because of that . . . ” She looked down at the coffee table. The short, squat bottle of V. Sattui Madeira she had shared with Robby was still there, a memory of their night together. A reminder of the start of a meaningful relationship. If she thought there was a chance it would hold Sebastian’s fingerprints, she would’ve driven it directly to the lab.

“And because of that,” Faye prompted.

“Because of that . . . Robby went missing a few days ago.” She brought her eyes up to Faye’s. Her aunt’s mouth was open.

“What do you mean, ‘went missing’?”

Vail got a couple glasses from the adjacent kitchen, poured some Madeira, and told Faye the whole story, beginning with their arrival in Napa. Soon the alcohol was flooding her bloodstream, making her head and arms feel like dumbbells.

“Do you think Detective Bledsoe’s friend will be able to help?”

It was a question Vail had asked herself on the drive home from Clyde’s. “I sure as hell hope so.” She set her glass down on the table. “Aunt Faye, I have a favor to ask. And a proposition.”

Faye leaned forward, apparently sensing the weight of Vail’s request.

“Because of the nature of the investigation into Robby’s . . . disposition, it may be necessary for me to come and go. Where, I don’t know. But it could also entail long hours away from home.” She put two fingers to the bridge of her nose. “Point is, I have no idea what’s coming around the bend.”

“You need me to stay,” Faye said. Her demeanor was flat, neither excited by the idea nor turned off by it.

“And that brings me to my proposition,” Vail said. “The room in the back. It’s got a separate entrance, its own bathroom. There’s even a plug for a mini fridge.”

“Move here, move in with you.”

“You’d be closer to me and Jonathan, and to Mom.” Vail’s mother, Emma, had Alzheimer’s, and Vail had moved Emma from her childhood home in Westbury, New York, to an assisted care facility in Virginia.

“First things first,” Faye said in a measured response. “Of course I’ll stay for as long as you need me to. As to a longer-term arrangement, let me think about it. I don’t have much keeping me in New York, but I just need to sit with the thought for a while. Okay?”

“Take as much time as you need.” Vail barely got out the words before a yawn overtook her and flooded her eyes with fluid. “I’ve gotta get to bed. I haven’t slept worth anything in days.”

“Don’t worry about anything here, Kari. You just work on finding out what happened to Robby. I’ll handle the rest.”

Vail said good night to Jonathan, walked into her bedroom, and collapsed onto the mattress.

37

Following their dinner at Bistro Jeanty, Robby ordered dessert to go, and when they arrived at their bed-and-breakfast room, he made her wait outside. When she protested, he smiled. “You said you trusted me.”

She tilted her head back and looked up into his eyes. “I do.”

Inside, a room full of candles. And a night of passionate lovemaking . . .

Vail awoke from her dream curled into a tight ball. Her shirt was soaked, her hair matted to her face. Only this was not a nightmare—it was a memory. A memory of their last night together. The next morning, when she gave him a kiss on her way out, would be the last she would see of him.

Vail sat up in bed, wiped away the tears, and steeled herself. It was time to go to work.

VAIL WALKED INTO the behavioral analysis unit and found it a flurry of activity. Despite Thomas Gifford’s claim that most of the profilers were out on leave, on assignment, or engrossed in vital projects, there was plenty going on.

Vail entered her office and sat down heavily. A stack of files on the corner of her desk was exactly as she had left it when she departed for California. A pile of messages was skewered on a pin to the right. She pulled them off, flipped through them, determined that none were time sensitive, and put them back on their holder. Except one: a reminder of her forthcoming counseling appointment with Dr. Leonard Rudnick.

She turned on her PC and watched as Windows booted up. While she sat there, she began to acknowledge the feeling she’d been fighting for days: that Robby had been murdered. The blood on the carpet in the B&B bothered her. If tests showed it was Robby’s, it would increase the odds of a violent confrontation that Robby likely did not survive.

Though it was a fair amount of blood, it was not of sufficient volume to indicate a body had bled out in that spot. But if he’d been shot or stabbed—certainly possible. Then again, he could’ve been moved—he wasn’t left there, so how soon after whatever violence befell him was he taken away? Or was that not his blood at all?

Vail opened Outlook and scanned through her mail. There was a message from Dixon, which came through yesterday around the time Vail was climbing into bed. As if Vail had sensed it, Dixon was writing her about a follow-up note regarding the blood on the carpet. She had spoken with the owner of the B&B, who said she knew about it, and claimed it was from a suicide attempt two or three years ago.

But the woman couldn’t be absolutely sure it was the same room, and she thought it was on the other side of the bed—but whichever room it involved was cleaned with some sort of organic enzyme. They had thought of hiring a company that did crime scene cleanup, but it was costly and the chemical worked well enough that they did not need to replace the carpet. And the spouse, who had found her, did not want a police report filed, so the owner agreed to keep it quiet—which certainly was in the B&B’s best interest, as well.

Vail replied, thanking Dixon and telling her she’d met with DeSantos and had no sense of whether or not it was going to bear fruit. As she hit Send, there was a knock on her open door. She swiveled her chair around and saw the stoic Art Rooney. She smiled and leaped from her chair, almost running toward him. She gave him a firm hug and told him she was glad to see him.

“Yeah, I got that from the greeting. Good to see you, too. Back home in one piece. Sometimes I’m concerned about you, Karen.”

“If I had any sense, I’d be concerned, too.”

“Got a minute?” he asked.

“For you? Always.” She took her seat behind the desk and Rooney took the lone guest chair.

“I wanted to touch base with you on the Crush Killer. Gifford said you guys found him?”

Vail leaned back. “Yeah, he won’t be plying his trade anymore. Ray Lugo shot him while I was questioning him, and he’s now in a medically induced coma.”

“What the hell was Lugo’s problem?”

Vail told him. She described her interview with Mayfield, the shooting, meeting with Merilynn Lugo, the DVD, the Guevara connection and her less than legal foray into his residence, the discovery of the new victim, and the apprehension of James Cannon. And then she told him about Robby.

Rooney sat back in his seat and crossed his legs. His gaze roamed the small office as he worked through the particulars of the case. “So we’re settled that Mayfield was a narcissist. And it sounds like Cannon was, to some extent, too—but his is an entirely different story. He was just learning to kill. Mayfield was his mentor. However it happened, they crossed paths and realized they had common inclinations. Mayfield took him under his wing and Cannon followed along, observing, learning. Then it was his turn to try his hand at the trade.”

“That’s probably why we caught him so quickly,” Vail said. “He wasn’t sophisticated as a killer. He rushed into it, had not planned his cover. He killed in the same community in which he lived—and not so anonymously. Even after crossing paths with a cop and an FBI agent, and making a pass at one of them, he still thought it was safe to kill.”

“Remember, these killers don’t think they’re leaving behind markers for us to follow. We pick up on things they aren’t even aware of.”

“Yeah, thank god for all that. Makes our job possible.”

“So that brings us to Detective Hernandez.” His eyes roamed the room again. “There would normally be no logical reason to conclude there was a relationship of any kind to John Mayfield or James Cannon. Far as we know, they hadn’t seen you with him. There’d be no reason why he’d have contact with either of them, no clear connection. So on the surface, I’d say you don’t have to worry about Mayfield’s comment about there ‘being more to this than you know’—at least as it relates to Detective Hernandez. Maybe he was talking about Cannon’s coming murders.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.” She tapped her foot while she processed it.

Rooney pushed his chair back and rocked on the rear legs. “That brings us to the next question: what happened to him? Let’s approach this as a typical missing persons case. A ton of people go missing each year. The possibilities include someone who disappears because of a criminal act he’s committed and he drops under the radar. Another is because he’s witnessed a criminal act and is afraid for his life. Or the most common, he’s having an affair or escaping a failed relationship, and this is a less confrontational way out for him.” He let the chair fall forward with a thump, then rested his forearms on his knees. “How are you handling it?”

“I haven’t totally lost it. But I’ve come close.”

Rooney nodded slowly. “If it was me, Karen, until I saw a dead body, I’d treat it as if he’s alive; I’d need that in order to function.”

“I now know what a victim goes through when her child is taken, presumed dead . . . but the body isn’t found.”

“Contrary to media myths, finding a body doesn’t bring closure. It helps a little, I guess, but the pain never goes away.” He waved at the air, as if dispersing smoke. “That’s not what we’re dealing with here. We’ll find answers—and we’ll find Detective Hernandez.”

“Thanks, Art.”

“I’ve got this thing the president needs me to deal with. Looks like I’m shipping off to Iraq in the morning, but I’ll be in touch. You need something, call. If I go, I’ll have a phone of some sort. Gifford will have the number.”

“What number will I have?”

Gifford was standing in the doorway, a stealth entrance—as was his style.

“My winning lottery ticket,” Vail said.

Gifford stared at her. “It’s so nice having you back, Karen. I missed the sarcasm and dry humor. Then again, I’ve missed my hemorrhoids, too, so that puts you in the same class. Now—we had a 9:00 AM appointment, did we not?”

Rooney rose from his chair. “César Guevara. He could be the key. I’ll give Austin Mann a call, touch base.” He gave Vail a wink, then walked out. “You hang in there, you hear?”

“Loud and clear,” Vail said. But that’s one of those things easier said than done.

38

Thomas Gifford led the way to his office. Lenka, seated behind her desk, nodded to Vail as she passed.

Gifford sunk into his black leather chair, which sat in front of a large picture window on the building’s second floor. He rolled the seat to the edge of his desk, grabbed a pair of metal-framed reading glasses, and stuck them on his nose. “This is your new case.” He reached for a file folder, then flipped it open. “Vic is a twenty-eight-year-old player for the PFL, the Pro Football League. It’s a start-up positioned to compete with the NFL. Vic’s name was Rayshawn Shines. Played for the Redskins for five years before being cut and hooking up with the PFL.” He stopped and removed his glasses. “Karen, you listening to me?”

Vail had to shake her head to dislodge the fugue into which she’d descended once Gifford began talking. “Yeah, of course. No. I’m—my mind’s on Robby.”

“Karen, I’m now talking to you as ASAC of the behavioral analysis units—”

“Since we don’t socialize, sir, have you ever spoken to me as anyone else?”

Gifford ignored her jab. “Get your shit together. You have a new case here. I need you to focus. I need a productive profiler, not dead weight.”

Dead weight? That hurts. “You have a way with words, sir.” She may’ve understood, but she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction. She rose from her chair. “Who’s the dick on the case?”

“He said he was going to touch base with you about it. Paul Bledsoe.”

“Bledsoe? He didn’t say anything—” But she immediately realized her mind hadn’t been tuned to matters other than Robby’s case. “I’ll get with him right now.” She turned and headed for the door.

“One other thing.”

Vail stopped and turned.

“Your appointment with Dr. Rudnick. I expect you to keep it.”

Vail twisted her mouth. “As if I don’t have more important things to deal—”

“Look,” he said, rising from his chair. “Your mental health is the responsibility of your unit chief and he and I have been concerned about all you’ve been through the past couple months. Dead Eyes, then the shooting at the White House, all that shit that happened to you in Napa—”

“No need for the recap. I know what my life’s been like. I’ve lived it.”

“Fine. Then look at this objectively. You may not be able to admit it to my face, but you know I’m right. Keep that appointment. That’s an order.”

“Yes sir,” Vail said with a mock salute. She pulled open the door and left.

39

Vail called Bledsoe on the way back to her office and arranged to meet at the crime scene, John F. Kennedy Stadium, in thirty minutes.

Vail parked in the player’s lot and badged the security guard, who told her he was expecting her. She was to meet Detective Bledsoe in the fitness facility, adjacent to the clubhouse.

The hallways were freshly painted and new industrial carpet had been laid recently, judging by the chemical smells that teased her nose. Vail pulled open the heavy metal door and stepped inside. An array of physical fitness equipment stared back at her, rivaling only the volume and selection of that found at Seattle’s University of Washington facility, which she had visited once on a case. The FBI Academy’s conditioning machines were impressive, but this was like an ocean compared to a lake.

“Karen. Over here.” Bledsoe’s deep voice from somewhere off in the distance was swallowed by the large room. The rows of equipment, combined with the floor-to-ceiling mirrors and awkward acoustics, made locating him a challenge.

“You didn’t tell me we had a case together,” she said.

“I started to last night, in the car. You weren’t in the mood, so I left it alone.”

“I’m still not in the mood. And I don’t have a lot of time.” She nodded at the bloodstained carpet, where white tape delineated the position and location of the corpse. “What’s the deal here?”

“Rayshawn Shines, offensive lineman for the D.C. Generals of the Pro Football League. One of their stars. Found right there, garroted. Stabbed multiple times postmortem. No defensive wounds.”

Vail stood over the bloody stain, as if looking at it would help her visualize the body as it lay the moment it had been found. It didn’t.

“So why am I here? It’s a homicide.”

“His penis and balls were cut off.”

Okay, that changes things. “So we’ve got a sexual homicide of a large male. How large?”

“Six-five, three hundred. They don’t screen for drugs in this new league like they do in the NFL. Steroid and PED use is rampant. League’s built on the concept of a narrower field, stronger armed quarterbacks, faster wide receivers. No huddles and more touchdowns.”

“That glazed look in my eyes is boredom. But don’t take it personally.”

Ignoring Vail’s remark, Bledsoe handed her a manila envelope. “Crime scene photos. Look ’em over in your spare time.”

“What spare time?”

“Hear me out. The PFL had to give fans something more exciting, right? To compete. The average NFL game runs from ten to thirteen minutes of actual playing time. The other three hours is the clock running during huddles, commercials, replays, and time-outs. The PFL got it right—fewer time-outs. Twenty-nine to thirty-three minutes of action. Their games are very exciting, like a constant rush. But when you’re up against a powerhouse like the NFL, you need a bigger gimmick. If a league wanted to grab attention, get a ratings bump, this might be a way to do it. Star player gets offed, that’s big news.”

Vail contorted her face. “Kind of a negative way to do it, don’t you think? Bad publicity.”

“I thought there’s no such thing as bad publicity.”

Vail considered the severed gonads and what bloggers would say if that fact were made public. “Your buff star player getting emasculated is good publicity?”

Bledsoe snorted. “Good point.” Bledsoe picked at a spot on his forehead. “So what do you make of that sexual component?”

“That sexual component, yes.” Vail sat down on a padded weight bench and thought for a moment. “First impression is that when we see male-on-male sexual homicide, we’re looking at a homosexual offender. Or, it could be someone who’s confused about his sexual identity, or someone who was sexually abused or exploited by a male figure as a child.”

“That it?”

“If you’re asking me to profile the offender, you know I can’t do it yet—not accurately. There’s only one vic.”

“But there are behaviors here,” Bledsoe said, craning his neck around.

Vail sighed. She wasn’t in the right frame of mind to do this. She wanted to be putting the pieces of Robby’s puzzle together, seeing if she’d missed something. She pulled herself up, took a deep breath, and cleared her thoughts. Tried to. She couldn’t. “Look, I’ve got an appointment I have to get to. I really didn’t want this case. Each minute that ticks by . . . ”

“I know. But anything you can give me would help.”

Vail checked her watch. “I think he’ll kill again. This may not be his first kill. No defensive wounds on a big guy like Rayshawn Shines? Your UNSUB knows what he’s doing. You can’t do this and hesitate or you’ll end up dead yourself. So he exhibited very high levels of confidence. He probably looks at this kill as an accomplishment. He did this, he can do anything. Unless this was a personal gripe, this killer enjoyed what he did. The garrote is an up close and personal kill. He enjoyed overpowering a big football star.”

Bledsoe absorbed all this, then said again, “That it?”

“Until this guy kills again, there’s probably not much else I can help you with.” She held up an index finger. “Not true. If I can clear my head long enough to concentrate on this, I’ll be able to give you more. Meantime, if you put together a list of suspects, I’ll help narrow it down. And I can help map out an effective interview approach.”

Bledsoe looked down at the blood-soaked carpet. “Okay.”

“I know you don’t want to hear this, but the more vics he leaves in his wake, the easier our job will be catching him.”

“Yeah—not very comforting.”

“It is what it is.” Vail held up the manila envelope. “Here you go.”

Bledsoe waved a meaty hand. “Those are yours.”

“Oh, goodie. I’ll put them in my photo album as soon as I get home. You know, the fancy leather one on my coffee table.”

“Now there’s the Karen Vail I know and love.”

“The Karen Vail you know and love is officially on leave.”

“DeSantos will come through,” Bledsoe said. “I just got a feeling.”

Vail twisted her arm and stole another look at her watch. “Gotta run. Doctor’s appointment.”

“Everything okay?”

“Bumps and bruises, but nothing that won’t heal. This is for my mind. Mandatory.”

“The shrink has to see a shrink. Ain’t that a kick.”

“You’re being an asshole, Bledsoe. Don’t ruin my opinion of you.” She turned and headed out of the fitness room.

40

Vail had a hell of a time finding a parking spot on M Street, but finally walked into the tiered, gray marble-tiled lobby. She took the elevator up and entered the small, warmly lit waiting room of Leonard Rudnick, PhD. Well-maintained Persian rugs were arranged atop satin-finished mahogany floors.

Vail had just sunk into the seat when the office door opened. Standing there was a gaunt older man who barely broke five feet.

“Ah, Karen. Good to see you’re back. I’ve been meaning to remind you that I’ve got a special entrance for agents.” Rudnick thumbed an area over his shoulder. “It’s around—”

“Why do I need a special entrance?”

Rudnick broadened his face into a forced grin, as if summoning patience for a petulant child. “Many agents I’ve treated over the years have preferred not to be seen entering a psychologist’s office.”

“I deal with the mind all day, doc. I’m not afraid to admit I have to see someone to get mine straightened out.”

“But your ASAC sent you here. It wasn’t a voluntary act.”

“I was in denial. But Robby sat me down and we had a heart to heart. My boss was right in sending me here. Believe me, if I thought he was wrong—”

“You wouldn’t have come?”

Vail let a smile tease her lips. “Something like that.”

“Come,” Rudnick said, motioning her in with both hands, a hyper-welcoming gesture. “Let’s start.”

Vail sat down in a firmly upholstered seat opposite an identical counterpart a few feet from her.

“So,” Rudnick said, patting his thighs. “Tell me. How’s the anger management going?”

Why’d he have to start with that? How do I begin to answer? Should I tell him about my interactions with Scott Fuller—where I held my tongue but ended up in a fistfight—or about my confrontation with César Guevara, where I rammed my Glock into his forehead? Tough choice.

“You’re hesitating. Does that mean it’s been a mixed result?”

Vail grinned. “I couldn’t have put it better.”

“Well, then. That’s okay, Karen. It’s a work in progress. You at least have seen some improvement, hmm?”

“Definitely. I find I’m able to hold my thoughts without them spilling out. I’m getting better at filtering the sharp retorts. Except when it comes to my boss. I can’t help myself.”

Rudnick’s brow rose about a foot. “You—you talk back to Mr. Gifford?”

Vail waved a hand. “All the time.”

Rudnick nodded slowly but did not respond to that. “Yes. Well. Let me ask you—”

“It’s not a big deal. I just—you know how it is with some people. You’ve got a different way of relating to them. Some people you can joke around with, others you can’t. My boss, I can give him some abuse. I can usually tell when I push him too far.”

“So this is humor? You poke fun at him?”

“I guess there are times when I do that. Mostly it’s sarcasm.”

“And he’s okay with that?”

Vail shrugged both shoulders, a slow, demonstrative movement. “I’m still gainfully employed as a supervisory special agent. But—honestly, that’s the least of his issues with me. He probably figures it’s best to choose which battles to fight.”

Rudnick chewed the inside of his cheek. It wasn’t pronounced, but Vail could see his jaw moving, and a slight concavity in the skin.

“I’m scaring you, aren’t I?” Vail asked.

“Scaring?” He laughed. A short burst. “Not the word I would choose, no. But you are . . . concerning me. Respect for a superior is a basic tenet of an organizational structure. Surely you have a feel for that. So when you purposely abuse your ASAC, it tells me there’s more going on beneath the surface. Would you agree?” Rudnick tilted his head, sliding his chin slightly to his right.

Vail checked her watch. She couldn’t help it. Robby was on her mind—no surprise there—and she needed to get back to his case.

“Someplace you’d rather be?”

Vail looked up. “Hmm?”

“Checking your watch. It tells me—”

“Yes. You want me to be honest with you, so I’ll tell you what’s going on. Robby went missing. While I was in Napa—”

“During your vacation?”

“Yeah, well, things didn’t really work out the way we’d planned.” She sighed, rubbed hard at her left eye. Do I have to go through this again?P

“Did you and Robby have a . . . disagreement? Does that explain those bruises on your face?”

Vail sat up in her chair. “No, no. Nothing like that.” She took him through the events of the past ten days, realizing it was going to eat up a good portion of the remaining appointment time.

Rudnick listened with riveted interest. When she finished, he leaned back and seemed to absorb her pain. His eyes were glazed with nascent tears. “You’ve dealt with cases where families never learn the fate of their missing loved ones, yes?”

Vail nodded almost imperceptibly.

“Then this episode, at its very least, will make you a better agent. It will give you instant credibility when confronting a similar situation. That type of empathy can’t be faked or created. It’s genuine or it’s not there.” He paused a moment, studied her face, then continued. “As to you personally, how are you dealing with Robby’s disappearance?”

Vail wrapped a lock of hair around her right index finger, then pulled it behind her ear. “Not very well. That was one of those times when my anger management counseling didn’t help.”

“Understandable,” Rudnick said. “What else?”

“As you’d expect. I’m on edge. I’m not sleeping well. When I get the chance to actually sleep.” She turned toward the wall where the doctor’s numerous certificates and licenses hung in ornate gold leaf frames. There was even a commendation or award of some sort bearing the Bureau seal, but at this distance she couldn’t make it out.

“I see. And how will you feel should you find out that Robby has died?”

Vail felt a ball in her throat, blocking her airway. She coughed, a dry rasp that cleared her trachea but didn’t completely dislodge the lump. “I refuse to accept his death. Not now. When I see a body,” she nodded. “Then I’ll accept it. Then I’ll deal with it. Until then, he’s alive.”

“I think we may need to eventually discuss at what point you stop looking and possibly accept a fate we don’t want to acknowledge.”

Vail started to answer but Rudnick held up a hand.

“That’s not for us to discuss right now. I’m planting a seed. At present, you have a goal. You’re driven to find someone who means a great deal to you.” He tilted his head, looked her face over, side to side, then top to bottom, before coming to rest on her eyes. “But don’t let it consume you, Karen. You have a son who depends on you. From what you’ve told me, he’s developed a special relationship with Robby, that Robby fills the void left by your absent and ill-intentioned ex-husband. Yes?”

“Yes.”

“Then remember that Jonathan will be hurting, too.”

Vail dropped her gaze to her lap.

“Does Jonathan know? About Robby?”

“He asked me if Robby was coming by. I danced around the question but didn’t say anything about his going missing.”

“There’ll come a time when you realize it’s best to level with your son. And he’s going to need you. You can bring him with you, if you’d like. And you can break the news to him here.”

Vail looked up, pursed her lips. “Thanks. I think I’d rather do it. At home.” She shook her head, as if waking from a trance. She balled her right hand. “But that’s not going to be necessary because I’m going to find Robby. Alive.”

Rudnick sat back. “Keep your head, Karen. Rational thought will help you find answers. Stay within yourself. Remain focused. And remember: emotion will cloud your thinking, blind you to what’s there in front of you.”

“I see you know me quite well.”

Rudnick lifted both hands palm up and smiled. “I’m a student of behavior, Karen. Just like yourself.”

“Everything’s a learning experience.”

“That’s true,” Rudnick said. But his face stiffened and he leaned forward with an index finger raised. “Just make sure you take away the correct lesson.”

41

As Vail made her way back to her car, she mused on the lure of counseling. Talking through your feelings felt good, if you had a skilled therapist who put you at ease. Still, the lure had to be tamed, because if you were not careful, it could become a crutch. And she prided herself in being able to solve her own problems. That was part of what made her a good field agent—instead of always asking for directions or assistance, she knew the constructs of her rules and regulations—and she acted accordingly. Fine, sometimes I act outside those regs . . . but, fuck it. Aside from my visits to Guevara, I never strayed too far and OPR’s investigations always cleared me.

The drive back to Aquia, Virginia, where the behavioral analysis unit was located, allowed her to be alone with her thoughts in a relaxed, posttherapeutic state, for the first time she could remember. She had been in motion, in meetings, and in confrontations for eleven days straight, with little sleep. The amount of adrenaline her body had manufactured and released over that time period would be precedent setting. Does Guinness track world records for biologic fluid production? Probably not.

Vail took the 143A exit off I-95, then swung her car into the unit’s parking lot. Two minutes later she was walking the hall to her office. The lure of her boss’s door was too great. She grabbed the knob, pushed through, and greeted Lenka. “Can I have a minute?”

“Let me see if he’s free.” She lifted her phone and pushed a button. A moment later, she said, “You can go in.”

Vail took a seat in front of Gifford’s oversize desk. “Anything new from the San Francisco field office on Robby?

Gifford peered at her over his reading glasses. “Nothing. They were just given the case yesterday, Karen. Cool your jets.”

“Who’s the lead agent?”

Gifford held up his hands. “No. I’m not going to tell you. I want you hands-off. Let them do their jobs. They don’t need Karen Vail giving them the third degree every day.”

Vail opened her mouth to object.

Gifford pointed at her across the desk. “And don’t tell me that wouldn’t happen.”

Vail swallowed her words and shrunk in her seat. Oh, yes it would happen. Yessiree. I’d keep them on their toes. I’d drive their asses to work the case hard.

“Do you know if they’ve at least gotten hold of Robby’s cell phone logs? I haven’t heard back from the lab about whether or not they’ve been able to recover the call data off his phone. I haven’t even gotten his logs from the wireless carrier.”

“All of that’s going directly to the agents out of San Francisco.”

Vail clenched her jaw. “If you don’t mind me asking, sir—”

“Whenever you start a sentence like that, my answer should be, ‘Yes, in fact, I do mind,’ so don’t bother asking.”

Vail ignored the remark. “I don’t get why it was so important for me to abandon Robby’s search. Yeah, the PFL vic looks like the work of a sexual predator, and the UNSUB is likely someone who could become serial, but it’s not a serial case. Not yet. If ever.”

“I told you—not that you were listening—but it’s a high-profile murder. I had no one else to assign it to and I wanted to get out in front of it ASAP.”

“But the body’s been moved. Another few days wouldn’t have mattered.”

Gifford removed his glasses. “Another few days. Really. When do you think you’d have been ready to come home, Karen? If you hadn’t broken Detective Hernandez’s case, you’d still be stalling, hoping you’d find something. And I’d be short an agent.”

Vail felt her blood pressure rising. “You’d be short an agent? Big fucking deal. Robby—Robby could be holed up in a shed somewhere in Napa, without food and water. He won’t survive much longer.”

“And he could already be dead.” Gifford looked away and rubbed a hand across his forehead. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

He met Vail’s eyes, and she could see his face was flushed, his remorse genuine.

“I’m as concerned about Robby as you are,” he said in a low voice. “There are agents working the case. If there’s something to do, something that only you can do, I’ll let you know. But you’ve got other work. I have three units to run. And your unit chief’s not a happy camper, trying to juggle cases with a skeleton crew. It’s my job to make sure he can do his job.”

“Well then.” Vail pushed herself up from the chair. “I guess that means I should get back to work. I don’t want my unit chief to be unhappy . Thanks for keeping me in the loop.” She walked out and closed the door behind her a tad harder than was necessary.

42

Vail sat down heavily at her desk. Finding out which agents were assigned to Robby’s case would not be difficult. A quick call to the field office would give her the information in a matter of minutes. She reached for her phone and noticed the light was blinking. She lifted the receiver and retrieved her voice mail.

The automated faux persona said, “Message left at 8:46 AM, today.” A familiar voice boomed across the little speaker.

“You know who this is, Agent Vail. I thought you should know that by now, your friend is dead. Don’t ask how I know this because I’ll never tell you and you’ll never find out. But I have my sources. You see, I may not always operate within the law, but apparently neither do you.”

Click. The computer voice said, “Next message.”

She dropped the handset at her side and sat there, attempting to absorb what she had just heard. Think! Concentrate. The voice. The voice sounded like César Guevara’s. Robby is dead? He’s screwing with me. Revenge for breaking into his house. How did he know I was back in Virginia? Is Roxxann at risk?

“Hey.” Knock at the door. “Hey—”

Vail pulled her face up toward the voice.

“You okay?” Hector DeSantos asked. He walked toward her, but she did not move.

Think, can’t think, Robby is dead? Can he be trusted, how do I check if he’s right—

“Karen.” DeSantos had moved around her desk and was pulling her up and out of the chair. “Look at me. What’s wrong?”

Vail hung there in his arms. Her gaze swung down toward the phone. Talk. Tell him. She licked her lips. Dry mouth, tongue thick, sticky. “Call. Guevara’s voice. He said—he said—” She pulled her eyes toward his. “He said Robby’s dead.”

“The guy’s a scumbag, Karen. He’s just fucking with you. Ignore what he said.” He looked at her, then gave her a gentle shake. “Karen, focus on my voice. Listen to me.”

She closed her eyes tight, then opened them.

“Think for a second. Reason this through. Why would Guevara do something as blatant as leave you, a federal agent, a voice mail like that when he’s already under suspicion?”

Vail took a deep breath. DeSantos was trying to wring out her emotions, make her think. Back to logic. My comfort zone. “Because Guevara’s not a guy that’s pushed around by anyone. Because I broke into his house and went through his things. Given who he is, that’s a huge insult. Who the hell am I to do that to him and get away with it?”

“Leaving you a message like that may not be smart,” DeSantos said, “but he’s got a huge ego and he needed to strike back at you. Psychological warfare can be very effective.”

Guevara’s showing me he’s above the law. He wanted to get inside my head. And it worked.

DeSantos tilted his head, studied her face. “You look like you’re spacing out on me.”

Vail shook her head. “Yeah. No. I mean I’m here.”

“Good. Because I did some digging around, and I found out some shit you’re not going to like.”

She looked at him but did not answer.

“Come with me.”

DeSantos led Vail by the arm out of her office and down the hall. She was still numb, in a fugue like none she had ever experienced. Things moving by her, noises in the background. Robby’s alive. It’s not true. Just psychological warfare. But what if it’s not, what if—

“I accidentally came across something. It was classified and filed in a way that made my nose twitch.” He looked at her, then stopped walking and pushed her up against the wall. “You with me? I need your full attention, Karen.”

“Yeah. Yes.” She took a deep, uneven breath.

“I came across something unusual. So I sniffed under the rock, one thing led to another, I made a few phone calls . . . and I ended up at the deputy administrator for the DEA. But I hit a brick wall. I couldn’t get shit. Before I started calling in favors and getting the FBI director involved, I took another look at what I had, dug a little more, and found another name associated with all this, someone accessible who we’d be able to speak with.”

Vail straightened up, pushed away from the wall. Like smelling salts under the nostrils, her brain whipped back awake. “Who is it? I want to talk to this guy.”

DeSantos looked at her a long moment, then said, “I thought you might. Let’s go.”

Vail followed DeSantos down the hall—and into Thomas Gifford’s office.

“Can we have a moment with Mr. Gifford?” DeSantos asked.

Lenka hesitated, glanced at Vail, then at the sharply dressed DeSantos. “And you are—”

“Hector DeSantos, DoD.” He pulled a credentials wallet and held it in front of her face.

“What’s this about?”

“Agent Vail and I need a moment with ASAC Gifford.”

Vail shook her head. “Hector, we’re wasting time. Let’s just go and see this guy. I don’t need permission from my ASAC to leave the building.” She turned toward the door, but DeSantos grabbed her arm. “We don’t need to leave the building. The person you need to talk with is right here.”

Gifford’s door opened. Vail and Gifford faced each other. Gifford’s gaze flicked over to DeSantos.

“Hector De—”

“I know who you are,” Gifford said.

“We’re here about Detective Roberto Hernandez,” DeSantos said, then stepped forward and pushed past Gifford into his office.

Gifford stepped aside. “Sure, just come on in,” he mumbled. He turned toward Vail and said, “Are you coming, too?”

43

Gifford sat down in his chair. Very official and stiff. He folded his hands in front of him and rested them on the desk. “Is there something I can help you with?”

DeSantos leaned forward. “Oh yeah, I’d say there is.”

“Is there a problem, Mr. DeSantos? I detect an attitude.” DeSantos seemed to study Gifford a moment. Vail watched the warring male egos, relieved that she was not part of it.

“I was asked to assist in locating Detective Hernandez and—”

“I thought I told you there were agents working this case,” Gifford said, his hard brow and stern voice aimed at Vail.

“I’m talking to you at the moment,” DeSantos said.

“Excuse me? Listen here, Mr. DeSantos. I’m the assistant special—”

“I know what you are. Acronyms aside, you’re a goddamn liar.”

Gifford sat there, his entire head shading red with anger.

“Hector,” Vail said. “Back up a second. Please. Let’s keep this civil. What are you talking about? You said you found some information on Robby’s case.”

“Yes.” He turned to Gifford. “I got into a classified DEA file. I spoke with Deputy Administrator Donaldson but he wouldn’t tell me shit. But there was another name there. Yours.”

Gifford did not move. “So?”

“The other name in the file was Roberto Enrique Umberto Hernandez. Now I don’t know about you, but there aren’t two people I know of with that name. And I also know there isn’t a good goddamn reason why Roberto Hernandez’s name should be in a classified DEA file.”

Gifford leaned back in his leather chair. Bit his bottom lip and examined the ceiling.

Vail and DeSantos shared a glance as Gifford began speaking.

“Detective Hernandez—Robby—wanted in to the FBI. But he didn’t want any help. No favors, no strings, no one on the inside making it happen. He wanted to earn it.”

“I already know that,” Vail said. “He and I have been down that road.”

“He has a friend in Napa. Sebastian—”

“We tried tracking him down,” Vail said. “Sebastian doesn’t exist.”

“His name’s Antonio Sebastiani de Medina. Goes by Sebastian.”

Vail cursed under her breath. Hadn’t seen that coming.

“Sebastian is a veteran undercover DEA agent working to infiltrate a violent Mexican drug cartel. Sebastian’s partner was killed in a freak car accident a couple weeks ago and he needed a quick replacement who could step in for one transaction.”

Vail felt her stomach beginning to turn. She closed her throat, fearing she might vomit.

“Sebastian recommended Robby because he knew him and he figured they’d work well together. For Robby, it was an ‘audition’ of sorts—if all went well, he could turn it into a permanent position with DEA. We’ve done this before, but it’s usually with task force members who are federalized as DEA task force officers. There wasn’t any task force in place, but Sebastian was both desperate and insistent. And his ASAC, though reluctant initially, gave in because Robby fit the bill and they needed him.”

“But—”

Gifford held up a hand to silence Vail. “That’s not all. Behind the scenes, Robby mentioned this job to me. He and I had talked a few days earlier about applying to the Bureau. But there are problems with that. With the budget deficit, we’re on a hiring freeze and shifting personnel around toward antiterrorism efforts, and . . . the biggest problem, and which I didn’t know until I happened to ask, Robby never got his B.A. He stopped a few credits short, so he has to finish that out and get his degree before he can apply.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“He didn’t realize it was an issue until he got the app. It’s not something he talks about.” Gifford leaned the chair upright. “Robby doesn’t know, but I reached out to Sebastian’s ASAC, Peter Yardley, with the understanding that he didn’t tell Sebastian, because I didn’t want Robby to know it came from me. Yardley wasn’t going to do it, because he was being a prick and if it went south he didn’t want his ass getting whipped. But when I called, I told him Robby was a good fit because of his background growing up in LA, in gang areas. He grew up around the drug trade and spoke Spanish fluently. Yardley was still noncommittal, but I asked him to do me a favor. I vouched for Robby, and Yardley said he’d review the file again. Next thing I know, Robby tells me Yardley’s giving it a ‘go’ based on Sebastian’s recommendation.”

“So this undercover op was in Napa?” Vail asked.

“Your trip to Napa was a setup from the start. When I ordered you to take a vacation, I’d already planned to tell you to get out of town, based on all you went through with Dead Eyes. But when the shootout happened in front of the White House with Danny Michael Yates, it was an added bonus because it gave me an obvious and immediate reason to tell you to take time off.”

“Going to Napa was Robby’s idea,” Vail said, half to herself. “And Sebastian arranged those wine cave tickets . . . ”

“Certain details of his op, what he was doing, who he was meeting with, were classified,” Gifford said. He stopped, looked down at the desk.

“You knew all along and you didn’t say anything,” Vail said. She rose from her seat and leaned both palms on the desk. “Do you know what I’ve been through? And this—this bullshit about coming home for the Rayshawn Shines case—”

“That was true. Sort of. We do need you working the Shines case, and we are shorthanded. But I also didn’t want you poking around anymore. You’re too damn good, Karen. I was afraid the longer you were there, the greater the chance you’d figure out what was going on.”

“Son of a bitch.” Vail held his gaze, refusing to blink.

“Karen,” DeSantos said. “Take a breath.”

“Sit down,” Gifford said, one word at a time. “And get yourself under control.”

Vail ground her molars but didn’t move. DeSantos placed a hand on Vail’s forearm, but she shook it aside, then took her time returning to her chair.

“You could have trusted me,” she said. “You could’ve told me what was going on.”

“All I know is that it was dangerous. I didn’t want to take any chances. It’s undercover, for Christ’s sake. I shouldn’t have to explain this to you.”

Vail sighed deeply. “But if we hadn’t found that vic in the wine cave, if the Crush Killer hadn’t—”

“Robby said he had it all worked out. There were times when you’d be busy. He told me he booked a massage and some spa time for you. During those hours, he was off with Sebastian meeting their contact. According to Yardley, he also got called out during the night—he left, met with Sebastian and the contact, and was back before you woke up.”

Vail shook her head. “If only you’d told me you knew where he was and that everything was okay . . . ”

“Would you really have been satisfied with that?”

Vail took a moment to answer. “No. But at least I would’ve known.”

DeSantos shifted himself in his chair. “If all he had were those two meets, where was he when Karen was trying to reach him the day they caught John Mayfield?”

“According to Yardley, the meet with their contact went extremely well,” Gifford said. “The guy took to him. So Yardley let him continue. And since you were busy with the Crush Killer, he knew you weren’t going to be a problem.”

“So that’s what I was, a problem?”

“For an undercover op,” DeSantos said, “yeah, you’d be a problem.”

Vail shook her head. “I can’t believe this. He lied to me. Robby lied to me.”

Gifford leaned both elbows on his desk. “Karen, be realistic about this. Robby was prepped to make one appearance, to meet with this one contact. He hoped it could lead to something permanent with DEA so he could build his resume. But he did a great job and it worked. Yardley was impressed. All I know is that he was granted emergency TFO—task force officer—status. My guess is that circumstances dictated that he go deep. And when you go deep undercover—”

“He left, without telling me. He disappeared.”

“More than that I don’t know.”

Vail shook her head slowly. Almost to herself, she said, “That would certainly explain the delay in getting Robby’s cell phone logs.”

“Don’t expect those records anytime soon,” Gifford said. “Obviously, there’ll be calls to and from sensitive targets. DEA’s got that data locked down tight.”

Vail brought a hand to her mouth. “Oh my God. Oh my God—” She rose from the chair and nearly knocked it backward. She grabbed both temples.

“What’s wrong?” DeSantos asked.

She turned to Gifford and pointed. “Get the name of the contact, of the guy Robby and Sebastian were meeting.”

Gifford chuckled. “Were you not listening? I can’t get that information. It’s classified.”

“Bullshit. Call Yardley, tell him you need to know.”

“He won’t tell me, Karen,” Gifford said. He shrugged. “He won’t.”

“I’ll get the name,” DeSantos said. “You have a secure line I can use?”

Gifford reached over and pulled a phone from a drawer. He handed the receiver to DeSantos. “Who are you calling?”

“The director. He’ll have a chat with the DEA administrator, and he’ll get us the name.”

Gifford held up a hand. “Above my rank. Good luck with that.”

DeSantos punched in the numbers. “Keep your fingers crossed.”

44

Vail watched while DeSantos began his quest to track down FBI director Douglas Knox. As he waited for Knox to take his call, Vail’s BlackBerry buzzed. She thought about whether to answer, noticed it was Dixon, and grabbed it as she moved out of Gifford’s office. Dixon . . . pretty early in California. Must be important.

“Roxx,” Vail said, “you’re not going to believe—”

“Are you near a computer?”

“I can be. What’s going on?”

“Don’t laugh,” Dixon said. “But I want you to go to YouTube.”

“No, wait. I’ve got some news for you.”

“Listen to me. Open it up and type in ‘Lugo confession.’”

Vail continued down the hall and slipped into her office. Sat at her desk and tapped on her keyboard. Opened YouTube. “Okay, typing in ‘Lugo confession.’”

“Scroll down. See Ray’s face?”

“Scrolling,” Vail said. “Wait—did you say Ray’s face? Lugo confession?”

“Just find the video.”

Vail passed the thumbnail that displayed Lugo’s image, then fingered her mouse wheel and clicked on the video. “Got it.”

“Turn up your speakers.”

Vail pressed Pause, then said, “Wait, what am I watching? Where’d this come from?”

“WITSEC approval came through for Merilynn Lugo. Surprised the shit out of me—out of everyone. Just guessing here, but maybe they figured that since Mayfield and Cannon are still alive, there was still a reasonable threat against her. When I met the U.S. Marshals Service at her place, she handed me a piece of paper with the name of this video written on it. Now just watch it.”

As she moved her mouse toward the link, she noticed that it said, in fine print, 4 days ago. “This was uploaded four days ago?”

“Yes, right before we caught Mayfield. Press Play.”

Vail did as instructed. As on the DVD, Ray Lugo’s face appeared onscreen, in a dimly lit room. The image jerked a bit, the result of a low-quality webcam. “If you’re watching this, it means I’m dead. Hopefully, I was successful in taking out the man who’s made my life a living hell. I don’t know his name, but he’s someone who kidnapped my wife and son five months ago. I guess Merilynn already gave you the DVD I left with her.

“If she didn’t, she and my son were returned unharmed, but with a warning that he’d kill them unless I did things to help him out. At first it was just getting some information for him. Then it became addresses, home addresses, and other information about people that I needed to use the Police Department and county database to look up. And then he wanted me to get him a prox card, which would give him access to the Sheriff’s Department.”

Vail closed her eyes. Shit, Ray, you should’ve told us all this. We could’ve done something. And it would’ve helped us.

“I didn’t realize what he was doing with the card, or all the info I was getting for him, until he asked for stuff on someone I knew, a friend of mine.” He bit his bottom lip and looked away from the camera. Seconds later, he turned back and tears were streaming over his lower lids onto his cheeks. “Our first vic, Victoria Cameron. Honest, I didn’t know what he wanted with her. I tried to ask him about it, but he told me to shut up and do as I was told. A couple days later, Vicky was dead. And I knew we had a problem.

“I tried. For months, I tried finding him. Son of a bitch was good. Too good. I got nowhere, and when I poked around, he knew. He knew.” Lugo tightened his jaw, then took a breath and blew it out.

“I should’ve said something. I’m sorry, I should’ve leveled with all of you. But there was nothing we could’ve done. I didn’t know who the guy was. I had nothing on him that would’ve helped catch him. But . . . ” He wiped at his eyes, looked off to his right, then back to the camera: “As we kept finding new victims, I felt like I should’ve been able to do something. I felt responsible. But I was just trying to protect my family. I had no idea what he was doing . . . ”

He wiped his face across his sleeve. “I had no idea he was using some of this information to locate and kill people. I—I don’t know what I would’ve done if I’d known. I truly believe he’d come after my wife and son—no matter where we went.

“So if you’re watching this, my wife has told you where to find it. I assume she’s safe. And I assume I was successful in killing this goddamn fucking monster who’s made the last five months of our lives a living hell. Wondering if he’s watching us, if he’s going to keep his end of the deal . . . ”

He paused, dropped his chin down—it looked like he had fallen asleep—but there was still timeline left on the video.

Lugo’s head came up and he said, “César Guevara is tied into this somehow. I don’t know how, but I’ve just got a feeling. There’s gotta be something. If he is somehow affiliated with our killer, I don’t want him skating by. Again, I’m sorry. But know that I gave my life trying to keep my family safe. And, yeah, mix a little revenge into that too. A lot of revenge.”

He sat there looking at the camera, then said, “Take care. I feel honored to have served with all of you.”

Vail closed the window.

“Open Live Messenger,” Dixon said.

Vail clicked and signed in, then added the Sheriff ’s Department email address. A moment later, a request for a video call popped up. Vail accepted, and Dixon’s face filled the screen. The sight of her friend’s image made her feel good. There hadn’t been many moments like that of late.

“So Ray was more deeply wrapped up in this than we thought,” Dixon said. “That explains why he was so agitated and stressed out. He knew what was going on but wasn’t telling us.”

“Don’t be so hard on him, Roxx. He thought he was doing what he had to do to protect his wife and son. It’s a horrible choice to have to make.”

“Still . . . he could’ve pointed us in the right direction.”

“What direction was that? We were already looking at Superior and Guevara. The only thing we might’ve been able to do is to put a tail on Ray so that when Mayfield contacted him, we could track it. But that would’ve run the risk that Mayfield would’ve found out or detected it somehow. And Ray probably wasn’t willing to take the risk that we’d be able to adequately protect Merilynn and Mario.” She shook her head. “We still don’t have the whole picture.”

“I’m going to talk with Brix about putting some undercovers on Guevara. It’ll be tough, because the street-wise SOB may pick it up. But we still don’t have enough for a search warrant.” She brushed her blonde hair off her face. “Let me switch gears a minute. I haven’t heard anything from the San Francisco field office about Robby. If they’re working the case, I’m in—”

“That’s what I was going to tell you,” Vail said. She rested both forearms on her desk and said, “You’re not gonna believe this, but Robby’s working undercover. I can’t go into it over an unsecure line. But that explains why he suddenly disappeared. He went dark.”

Dixon’s eyebrows rose. “No way!” She sat back in her chair. “That’s a huge relief. But Jesus, I can’t believe he didn’t tell you. I mean, doesn’t he realize what he put you through?”

“I just found out a minute before you called, so it hasn’t really sunk in. Let’s just say I feel betrayed. Bottom line, he didn’t trust me.”

Vail’s desk phone buzzed. “Agent Vail,” Lenka’s voice said over the speaker. “Mr. Gifford wants you in his office right now.”

“On my way.” Vail faced the webcam. “Roxx—”

“Before you go. Aaron’s analysis of those fibers they found in the blood in Cannon’s shed turned out to be deer, as we thought. They combed through his house and found the body buried in his yard. Clearly a brutal act. Nothing tentative about it.”

“Not surprising.”

“I thought you’d want to know.”

“You thought right. Gotta run. I’ll call you later.”

Vail disconnected the call and ran out, back toward Gifford’s office.

45

Vail didn’t have time to put further thought into Cannon’s deer killing, but she felt as if she already knew everything she needed to know about it, and the man—at least for the purpose of her current task.

When Vail walked into her ASAC’s office, DeSantos and Gifford were standing and arguing—and stopped the moment she entered. They turned to look at her.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

“Robby’s undercover contact,” DeSantos said. “His name is César Guevara.”

Vail processed that a long second, then reached back for a chair and sat down heavily. The discovery of Robby’s handwriting in Guevara’s house suddenly came into focus. “Shit. Shit. Shit.” She dropped her head into her hands. “I’m not feeling very well.”

“What’s the problem?” DeSantos asked.

Without raising her head, Vail said, “When Robby went missing, I went into a frenzy. I looked everywhere. The task force and the Napa Special Investigations Bureau mobilized. I gave them Robby’s photo to show around town.” She grasped her hair in both hands. “And I . . . I showed it to Guevara.”

But that wasn’t the worst of it. Vail yanked her phone and pulled up the photo Jonathan had sent her. The image struck her like a slap to the cheek.

DeSantos must have seen her reaction, because he reached over and grabbed the BlackBerry from her hand. “Ah, shit.”

Vail watched as he handed the phone to Gifford, who took a look, then sat down slowly in his chair.

“Hector, get the DEA administrator on the line—and have him conference in Yardley.”

DeSantos paged to the number, then lifted the secure handset.

“I’ve got some more disturbing news,” he said as DeSantos made his call. “We’ve lost contact with Robby and Sebastian. They missed their last three check-in times.”

Vail felt panic rising in her throat like bile. She steeled herself, tried to settle her nerves. Now’s not the time to freak out. As Rudnick had said, she had to keep her emotions in check. This wasn’t exactly what he was referring to, but it certainly applied.

“Yes, Mr. Administrator, I’m here with ASAC Gifford and Agent Vail. I’m putting you on speaker.” DeSantos listened a moment, then gestured to Gifford, who pressed a button. “He’s bringing Yardley online.”

A moment later, DEA administrator Bronson McGuire’s voice filtered through the speaker. “Yardley and I are here. What’s the problem?”

“Sir, Karen Vail. I’ve just been briefed on Roberto Hernandez’s undercover op.” Would’ve been nice to put me in the loop, asshole. “I was with him when we—”

“Yes, yes, Agent Vail. I’m familiar with the op. What’s the problem?” he repeated.

Vail clenched her jaw. Emotions in check. “When he went . . . missing, the Napa County major crimes task force began an all-out search. I obtained a photo to distribute to the LEOs for them to show around the community. I needed a picture fast, and I used one I had from a few weeks ago. We took it at the FBI Academy.” She paused, as if the next sentence was too painful to utter. But she pressed forward nonetheless. “We took it in front of the academy sign.”

There was silence, so Vail continued.

“You could see the large ‘FBI’ lettering.” She closed her eyes. “I showed the photo to César Guevara. And I may’ve referred to him as ‘a colleague of mine.’” At the verbalization of those facts, Vail began to perspire. No, dammit, she was sweating. The implication was clear: she had inadvertently blown Robby’s cover. And the fact that they had lost contact with their undercover agents could only portend a less than optimistic result.

“Well,” McGuire said, “this is just fucking goddamn great. Nice work, Agent Vail.”

“Now hang on a minute, sir,” Gifford said. “Agent Vail was not privy to what was going on. She did what any of us would’ve done if a fellow officer went missing. The . . . unintended consequences are very bad, no question. But to blame her—”

“Sorry if I hurt Agent Vail’s feelings,” McGuire said. “But tough shit. We’ve got a situation here, and it’s a fucking bad one. Thanks for all your help.”

The call disconnected.

DeSantos put his hands on his hips and began pacing. Vail sat there seething. And Gifford stared at the silent telephone.

“We’ve gotta find him, Hector.” Vail was now on her feet.

DeSantos looked at her. The resigned tilt of his head reflected his thoughts: it was probably too late.

Gifford said, “It’s not your fault, Karen. If I hadn’t done this favor for him, he never would’ve been on this op. If anything, it’s my fault.”

“Assigning blame isn’t going to help anyone,” DeSantos said. “No one could’ve foreseen this.” He stopped pacing. “This is a DEA operation. They’ve got assets in place that could find him a lot faster than we could.”

“Are you saying we shouldn’t try?” Vail asked, then turned to Gifford, who was still lost in thought. “Sir, please.”

Gifford pulled his gaze to Vail. “Find him. Whatever it takes, bring him back. Preferably alive.”

Vail looked at DeSantos. “You with me?”

DeSantos licked his lips, hands still on his hips. “Yeah.”

“Then let’s go. We’re wasting time.”

46

Once they’d cleared the stairs outside the BAU, Vail stopped. She grabbed the railing. “I blew it, Hector. Do you think—did I get Robby killed?”

DeSantos put his arm around Vail’s shoulders. “I sure hope not. I’m not gonna lie to you. This is bad. His cover’s been compromised. We’re behind the eight ball on this. But you’ve got friends on the task force in Napa?”

Vail nodded.

“Call them. Have them find Guevara. Take him somewhere, legal or not, and sweat him. Will they do that? Will they grab him up without a warrant?”

She hesitated. “Maybe.”

“Convince them. Whatever it takes, they’ve gotta find out what he knows. It may be our only chance. Meantime, I’m gonna reach out to some people and see what I can do.”

He pulled his phone, then turned back to Vail. “Now. Make the call.”

Vail mentally slapped herself. Get with it, Karen. Freak out later. She called Dixon. Brix was in the car with her, so he could hear what she had to say.

“I’m about to ask you a favor, and it’s going to jeopardize your careers. But I’ve got nowhere else to go.”

There was a moment’s hesitation, then Dixon said, “Go on.”

“Brix, have you been briefed—”

“I’m up to speed.”

“Okay. Listen to me. César Guevara was the target of a DEA operation. Robby was brought in by his friend Antonio Sebastiani de Medina—Sebastian—to work the case with him. He was only supposed to handle one transaction, but Robby’s meet with Guevara went well, and his role expanded.”

“I thought Robby was a detective with some small town in Virginia,” Brix said. “Venice?”

“Vienna. Long story, and it’s unimportant. He got this gig with DEA, hoping it’d lead to a permanent position. So now we have the connection between Robby and Guevara. That’d explain Ian Wirth’s address in Guevara’s house, in Robby’s handwriting. Robby was probably helping Guevara at that point. Maybe it was a test. I don’t know—I don’t know if we’ll ever know. But you’ve got to find Guevara. Before it’s too late.”

“I’m turning the car around right now. We’ll check Superior first.”

“There’s still not enough for a warrant, so you’re going to need to grab him up and take him somewhere.” Vail realized she was on an open cell connection—but there was no time. Robby’s life was of paramount concern. If she lost her career but saved him, it’d be worth it. Then again, if she lost her career and he turned up dead—no, I can’t think that way. He’s alive. He’s alive.

“I’m texting Mann,” Brix said. “Get him over to Guevara’s house. Just in case.”

“One thing you should know,” Vail said. “Robby and Sebastian missed their last three check-ins with their DEA case agent. And Guevara left a voice mail for me a little while ago that said Robby was dead. He made it sound like he wasn’t responsible, but that he knew who was.”

“Don’t believe that scumbag,” Dixon said. “If he’s got information, we’ll get it.”

“Thanks, guys.”

“Hang in there,” Brix said. “We’ll be in touch.”

Vail looked up. DeSantos was ending his call. “C’mon. We’ve got a meet with a guy who’s gonna get some info for us.”

“Who is he?”

“Don’t ask, don’t tell. Best that way.”

Vail pulled herself up from the steps. “If he’s got the info we need, I couldn’t give a shit who he is.”

47

Dixon took the turn too fast, and the car dovetailed. Brix grabbed the dashboard with his right hand but couldn’t keep his shoulder from pushing up against the door.

“Sorry,” Dixon said. “Make sure your seat belt’s fastened because I don’t intend on going the speed limit.”

“How hard do you want to push this?”

“I intend on coming away with answers, Redd. Simple as that. This guy’s wrapped up in this. He might’ve had something to do with the Lugo kidnapping. He may’ve had something to do with aiding John Mayfield. And he apparently has something to do with Robby’s disappearance. I don’t plan on giving him a Coke and a slice of lime and treating him like he’s at a spa.”

But Dixon was well aware that Brix had recently given her and Vail a hard time about entering César Guevara’s home without a warrant. Now she was expecting Brix to join her in leaping off the career-ending legal precipice with her.

“Once we cross this line,” he said, “there’s no going back.”

Dixon took a quick glance in Brix’s direction. Their eyes locked. A silent answer.

They pulled onto the street where Superior Mobile Bottling was located. “It’s 7:00 AM,” Brix said. “I doubt he’s here.”

“He gets to his office every morning at 7:15,” Dixon said, pulling into the adjacent parking lot. She slid the car into a slot behind the building, hidden from the street. “Up ahead, by that brick wall,” she said, pointing. “We’ll have a view of the front entrance and the side driveway. We’ll be able to see him when he arrives, but he won’t see us.”

Brix nodded and then followed Dixon on foot to their perch. The air was crisp and the sky was brightening to their left, in the east.

The time ticked by without activity. Finally, at 7:40 AM, Dixon sat down on the ground, her back against the brick wall.

“What do you think?” Brix asked.

“I don’t know. My source only knew what time he came in each day. I don’t know how prompt he usually is.” Dixon pulled her phone, called Austin Mann. “Anything?”

“House is dark. By now I’d think someone’d be awake and moving around. I’ve got the front, Gordon’s got the back, and I’ve got two other guys from NSIB placed at various other points of interest. Nobody’s seen anything.”

“Guevara’s usually at his office by 7:15,” Dixon said. “It’s possible he’s out of town. If he is, that’d be very convenient timing.”

“You want us to go up and knock?” Mann asked.

Dixon thought about that. “No, let’s give it a little longer. Maybe he’s running late. I’d rather take him at his office. There isn’t a whole lot around here. But in a residential neighborhood . . . lots of potential eyes and ears.”

“Okay,” Mann said. “We sit and wait.”

48

Vail followed DeSantos to his car, a low-slung black Corvette.

“You’re kidding me,” Vail said.

“What?”

“You want me to drive around in that?” She wiggled a finger at the highly polished sports car. “I have claustrophobia. Let’s take my Ford.”

DeSantos unlocked the Vette. “I don’t ride in Fords. Get in, you’ll be fine.”

And a moment later, they were speeding out of the lot, en route to I-95.

Vail looked around. She was sitting lower than she had ever sat in a car. But so far, there was no crushing anxiety. Her psyche was probably so overworked with stress from Robby’s situation that it had nothing left to give. Take your mind off it and you’ll be fine.

A spark of sunlight glinted off the highly polished chrome of DeSantos’s stylish watch band. “Is that a bicycle chain you’re wearing?” She nodded at the timepiece on his wrist. “Your watch.”

“It’s a Dēmos. Same one the president wears.”

Vail twisted her lips. “And you would know that, how?”

DeSantos frowned. “You’ll soon learn not to ask me questions like that.” He gunned the accelerator and they rocketed across three lanes of traffic to the far left of the interstate.

Vail felt her stomach vault into the backseat and she reached out for something—anything—to grab onto. Perhaps she got too comfortable in this vehicle too soon. She licked her lips, trying to restore moisture to her suddenly dry mouth. “This guy you’ve hooked us up with. Who is he? I don’t like going into any situation blindly, let alone a meet with a CI.”

“He’s not a CI,” DeSantos said. “He works for DEA. Let’s just say he has access to files and information. That’s how I got what I got that led me to Gifford.”

“And I’m not supposed to know any of this.”

“If you did know it, he’d have to kill you.”

At the moment, Vail did not find that funny. And despite both Gifford’s and DeSantos’s admonitions, she did feel responsible for blowing Robby’s cover. Dammit, if he had just trusted me, if he had just confided in me and told me he had a mission and that he’d be gone awhile. What would the harm have been?P

“You went quiet on me,” DeSantos said. “Where were you just now?” Vail turned toward her window. “Nowhere.”

“Bullshit. You were thinking about Robby. You feel guilty.”

Vail did not respond.

“For all we know,” DeSantos said, “he’s fine and lying low until it’s safe to resurface. He could’ve talked his way out of it.”

“Anything’s possible,” Vail said. “Either way, I’m going to find him. And if something’s happened to him, I’m going to find whoever’s responsible. I can be a real bitch when I’m crossed.”

“You understand he had to leave without you knowing. He couldn’t tell you.”

“No, I don’t understand any of that. What I understand is that he lied to me. I kissed him good-bye in the morning and he told me he’d see me later that evening. But he had no intention of seeing me, did he?”

DeSantos zipped past a car that was doing ten over the speed limit. She glanced at the speedometer. They were going 95 miles per hour.

“We don’t know what happened. Maybe he expected to have dinner with you. But something might’ve broken on the case, and he had to leave. Don’t judge him until you know the facts.”

“Bottom line. He was doing this and chose not to tell me. Omission of facts is the same as lying, Hector. He deceived me. How can I trust him the same way ever again? Trust is one of the most important things in a relationship.”

“I’m married, Karen. I understand where you’re coming from. But until you give Robby a chance to explain, you’re not being fair. You’re taking this personally, not looking at it as a federal agent who has an in-depth knowledge of deep cover work.”

“You don’t know what I’ve been through. A failed marriage. A spouse who went from loving husband to abusive drunk who refused to take his medication. I needed someone I could trust, someone I could lose myself in and not worry about whether or not he was lying to me.” She shook her head. “As far as I’m concerned, there are no excuses. When we find him, Hector, I’m going to kill him.”

THEY ARRIVED AT THEIR MEET with the contact, whom DeSantos called “Sammy.” It wasn’t his real name, but it was safer this way for all involved.

DeSantos pulled his Corvette up to the curb in front of Professors Gate at The George Washington University on 21st Street NW. He shoved the shift into park and popped open his door.

“I don’t think we can leave it here,” Vail said.

“Not a problem. If they start to write up a ticket, they’ll run my plate and everything’ll be fine.”

Vail looked at him. “You’re not really serious.”

DeSantos slipped on his wraparound sunglasses. “Really, I am.” He dropped the keys into his suit pocket. “You worry too much, Karen.”

He walked through the decorative wrought iron arch, which was supported by two squat concrete tile columns. “GW” was prominently lettered in gold on black above the apex of the curve.

“Why here?” Vail asked as she followed him along the red brick pathway.

“Why not? It’s my alma mater. I donate every year when they call me, so I may as well get some use out of my donation.”

“Yeah, I don’t think that’s the point.”

“It’s not, but so what?” They walked past a black circular sculpture seated on a square cement emplacement within a slightly elevated grass strip: three circles intertwined within one another. They continued past it toward Kogan Plaza and stopped near a miniature concrete gazebo topped with a copper dome. A man in jeans and a navy sweatshirt leaned against one of its ionic columns, pulling on a cigarette.

“Kogan Plaza,” DeSantos said, nodding at a brick-laid square ahead of them. “Bart Kogan’s a big donor to the school.”

“You know him, of course.”

“Matter of fact, I do. Friend of mine introduced me to him once, when he was in town. Had coffee. Nice guy.”

DeSantos stopped short of the structure and took a seat on a weathered wooden bench to his left, positioned beneath a row of medium-height trees. Vail sat beside him.

Vail tilted her head toward the gazebo. “That Sammy?”

“It is,” DeSantos said. “He’ll be over in a minute.” He turned to Sammy, removed and replaced his sunglasses, then put his arm across the back of the bench behind Vail. “Let me do the talking, okay? He’ll be nervous enough with you here.”

“He’s got a baseball hat on, sunglasses and a beard. I’m guessing the beard’s fake. Is he really worried I might ID him?”

“A guy like this doesn’t take chances.” DeSantos pulled out a pack of Juicy Fruit. “And neither do I.” He flipped open the gum and removed a stick, then offered Vail a piece. She declined.

As DeSantos folded the Juicy Fruit into his mouth, Sammy joined them on the bench, to DeSantos’s left. He did not look at them.

He lowered his chin and said, “Your friend was working on an op known as Velocity. The op’s been active since 2006 and heated up this year when we caught a break. Things were moving nicely till one of our guys had an accident. Your friend filled that void.”

“What was the op?” Vail asked.

DeSantos turned to her and gave her a look.

Tough shit, Hector. I’m here. I’m going to ask questions.

Sammy tilted his head back, his aviator sunglasses reflecting the glary sky like a mirror. “It’s far-reaching. But bringing down a cartel’s one of the primary objectives.”

“Which cartel?” Vail asked.

Sammy’s mirrored glasses flicked over to Vail. It was evident he was not pleased with her intrusions. His gaze slid over to DeSantos. “Cortez.”

“Cortez—” Vail said, then stopped herself. Holy shit. That’s the big leagues.

Sammy craned his head around, searching the immediate area. “I’ve said enough.”

DeSantos dipped his chin. “Appreciate it.”

“Wait,” Vail said. “That’s it? How does César Guevara fit into this?”

Sammy looked at DeSantos. His expression was as unreadable as stone. “See you around.”

He rose from the bench and turned in the direction of the gazebo. Vail started to get up, but DeSantos clamped down on her arm with vise-like strength.

“Let him go, Karen.”

She pulled away—to no avail. “But he knows more than he told us.”

“If he does, he’ll let me know. He said what he felt he could say in front of you. Let’s run with what he gave us.”

DeSantos released his grip. Vail turned and watched Sammy dissolve into the moving mass of students. Vail put a hand to her forehead, then rose and began to pace. “This is worse than I thought, Hector. Carlos Cortez, Jesus Christ. Cortez is one of the most violent and aggressive cartels.”

DeSantos looked off and, for the first time, Vail saw a look of concern on his face.

49

He’s not coming,” Brix said.

Dixon twisted her wrist and consulted her watch for what felt like the fiftieth time. Sitting and waiting, when so much was at stake, was a difficult skill to master. She still hadn’t perfected it. Her knee was bouncing and she felt the need to scream—anything—to burn off the excess adrenaline.

Brix stood up and brushed off his pants. “What do you want to do?”

Dixon got to her feet and looked up at the sky. It was bright and warm. It would be unseasonably hot today. “He’s not home and he’s not at work. Let’s poke around and see if anyone knows what’s going on. He has a secretary. It’s 9:00 AM, start of normal business hours. Why isn’t she here?”

Brix pulled his phone. “You got the number for Superior Mobile Bottling?” Dixon gave it to him, and he dialed. A moment later, he closed his handset. “They’re closed for annual maintenance. What do you think, bullshit?”

“I don’t know. But let’s go talk with someone who might.”

DIXON’S LAST VISIT to Wedded Bliss Vineyards seemed like weeks ago—but it was only a few days. She led Brix up to the glass structure built into the face of a mountain. Brix marveled and made all the appropriate gaping movements with his mouth.

“Makes Silver Ridge look like a shack.”

“You should be proud of your winery, Redd. I wanted to own a winery once.”

“Yeah? What happened?”

“Money happened. It was expensive back ten years ago. Now it’s just plain ridiculous.”

“It’s business. Supply and demand. Napa’s a very valuable brand. That means the value of the finite amount of land goes up. We were lucky our family got in when land was cheap.” He tilted his chin up toward the glass roof, beyond which lay the soil and roots of the mountain that towered above them. “But even if I’m not actively involved, I am proud of it. It’s ours. And we turn out high-quality wine.” He gestured at the pristinely lit glass structure around them. “But then you see a place like this, it feels like a different league.”

“Up the stairs. Crystal’s waiting for us.”

They walked into Crystal Dahlia’s all-glass office and dispensed with the pleasantries. Crystal grinned. “And how’s your friend. Agent Vail?”

“Back in Virginia.”

“Did she enjoy her stay out west?”

Dixon and Brix shared a knowing look. Dixon said, “Not particularly.”

“Oh,” Crystal said, her smile fading. “I’m sorry.”

“Couldn’t be helped,” Dixon said. “Circumstances beyond our control.”

“So how is Silver Ridge, Lieutenant Brix?”

Brix threw out both hands, palms up. “Who can complain? The economy sucks, sales are down a bit. But the wine is great. I’m told this will probably be a good year for the grapes if the weather goes as expected.”

“I’m told the same thing.”

“If you don’t mind,” Dixon said. “We’ve got some pressing business. No pun intended.” She waited a beat, then said, “Your board—the Georges Valley AVA.”

“I told you, my presidency is almost over.”

“Yes,” Dixon said. “But we need some information about Superior Mobile Bottling. César Guevara, in particular.”

Crystal placed well-manicured red nails on her desk. “Our contracts VP has dealt with him more than I have.”

“That’s Ian Wirth?”

“Good memory. If you wait a few minutes, Ian will be here if you’d like to talk with him. I’m due to hand over my file as part of the transition to the new president.”

Dixon checked her watch yet again. “A few minutes?”

“Any minute now.” Crystal picked up her phone and dialed an extension. “When Mr. Wirth arrives, please send him up to my office . . . He has? Excellent.” She placed the receiver back in its cradle. “Ian just came in the front doors.”

A moment later, Wirth was in Crystal’s office, taking a seat beside Dixon.

“Ian, good to see you,” Crystal said, eyeing him with a lingering gaze.

The look was not lost on Dixon, who recalled that Crystal was Wirth’s ex-wife.

“Ms. Dixon, good to see you again,” Wirth said. He held out a hand to Brix. “Ian Wirth.”

“Redmond Brix.” He stood and shook firmly, then retook his seat. “Good that you’re here. We’ve got some questions and Crystal thought you might be able to help us out. We know you were your board’s primary negotiator in its dealings with Superior Mobile Bottling. But how much did you interact with César Guevara?”

Wirth smirked. “Quite a lot. I negotiated our last contract with him and had ongoing discussions with him about its potential renewal.”

“And was he aware that you were one of the three on the board who was against him getting this contract?”

Wirth leaned back in his seat. “If he was, he never let me know it. And I played my cards close to the vest. Besides, I was speaking and negotiating for the entire membership, not me, or Victoria, or Todd.”

“I know you’re aware that the two others who opposed this contract are dead.”

“Hold it a second.” This from Crystal, who was suddenly paying attention. “What are you saying?”

“Victoria Cameron and Isaac Jenkins were the victims of a serial killer,” Brix said.

“I heard something on the news—”

Brix held up a hand to quash Crystal’s panic before it could work itself into a frazzle. “He’s been caught, and he’s no longer a threat.”

“Yes, that’s what they said.” Crystal’s gaze shot from Brix to Dixon, and back. “But I thought Victoria had a stroke.”

“We didn’t want word getting out until we had things under control,” Brix said. “The victims’ names still haven’t been released, so I’d appreciate if you’d keep that to yourselves until we’ve had a chance to meet with the families.”