Crush

“What do you mean?”

“I’m thinking, like, Victoria Cameron?”

Guevara rubbed his hands on the rag. “No. No problems.”

“She was pretty much against you getting your contract renewed,” Vail said. “You’ve got a lot of money invested in your equipment. Be a tough loss, a financial hardship, if she got her way. Any idea why she was so determined not to renew the contract?”

“I don’t get involved in that stuff. That’s their business. My business is bottling.”

This guy is sharp—but guarded. Why? What’s he hiding? Is it related to the looks he keeps giving Ray?

“Where were you last Friday, around six?” Vail asked.

“Here, cleaning the corking machine.”

“How late did you stay?”

Guevara looked ceilingward. “About eight, I think.”

“Anyone else here with you?” Vail asked.

“Sandra left at five. I don’t know if anyone else was around. I’ll have to check.”

Not the kind of answer we like to hear. “Was there anyone here that you saw? Anyone who was scheduled to work?”

Guevara locked eyes with Vail. His jaw muscles tightened. “I’d have to check.”

“You have to check if you saw anyone? Either you did or you didn’t.”

“I don’t remember.”

This guy is beginning to piss me off. “Who sets the schedule for your employees?”

Guevara folded his arms across his chest. “Why is that important?”

“It’s important because I asked the question.”

Another firm stare from Guevara.

“Ray,” Dixon said. “How about you go have a chat with Sandra up front and see what she knows?”

“Do you have a warrant?” Guevara asked.

“For what?” Dixon said. “To ask questions?”

Guevara tossed the rag on the floor. “I don’t know. It sounds like you think we’ve done something wrong.”

Dixon shrugged. “We’re conducting an investigation, Mr. Guevara. Right now we don’t have reason to think anyone at Superior has done anything wrong. But you’re being evasive in your answers, and that does make us suspicious. Like you’re trying to hide something.”

Guevara spread his arms. “I got nothing to hide. I don’t remember seeing anyone here with me. But it’s a short list of people who might’ve been here. I promise you I’ll look into what you asked and call you back with the answers. Good?”

Not really. But it’s apparently the best we can get right now.

“What about Monday? Where were you from noon till four o’clock?”

“I’ll check that, too.”

“And Wednesday, around six?”

“I’ll have to get back to you.”

“When was the last time you were in Vallejo?” Vail asked.

Guevara shrugged. “I drive through there once a week.”

“Know anyone there, any family?”

“There’s a supplier we use there. Other than that and the freeway, I’ve got no reason to go there.”

Vail took a flier, played a hunch. “Mr. Guevara, is your mother still alive?”

Guevara’s eyes narrowed. “What do you want with my mother?”

Vail shoved her hands in her back pockets. “Just a question.”

“I can’t see how she’s got anything to do with this conversation.”

“That’d be kind of hard for you to judge, though, since you don’t know why I’m asking. Wouldn’t you think?”

“My mother has nothing to do with me, my business, or my family. Next question.”

Interesting.

Dixon dug into her pocket. “I’d appreciate if you get that other information for us later today or tomorrow.”

“I’ll let you know as soon as I have something to tell you.”

Dixon handed over her card. Vail watched Guevara take it, then took special notice as his eyes flicked back over to Lugo. The look said he wasn’t happy. Whatever was going on with Lugo, they would soon find out.

UPON LEAVING, Vail suggested they grab lunch while they could, since once they returned to the sheriff’s department, they would likely get sidetracked with work. Dixon recommended Azzurro Pizzeria on Main Street in downtown Napa, a fifteen-minute drive from Superior Mobile Bottling.

“Best pizza I’ve had in a long time,” Dixon said. “The flavors burst all over your tongue.”

Vail laughed. “Burst all over your tongue?”

Dixon unfolded the menu. “You’ll see. My fave’s the Verde. Spinach, garlic, chilies, and ricotta. If you like mushrooms, the Funghi is absolutely killer.” She looked up at Vail. “Sorry. You’ve got me doing it now.”

Lugo was quiet while they consulted the menu and then ordered. The waitress brought their iced teas and then moved off. Vail and Dixon made idle chitchat about the area, including their favorite pizza restaurants they’d eaten in across the country.

Finally, with Vail itching to address what was on her mind—it was bothering her like a piece of food stuck between her teeth—she turned to Lugo. “Ray,” Vail said nonchalantly, “do you have a history with César Guevara?”

Lugo looked up, as if suddenly realizing others were at the table with him. “A history?”

“Do you know him?”

“Why are you asking?” Dixon asked.

Vail had to tread carefully. She had a knack for alienating people, and Lugo was a good guy and well liked. She didn’t want to start something that would undoubtedly leave a bad taste with everyone on the task force. Clearly, Dixon had not picked up on the silent interplay between the two men. Did I imagine it? She tore open a packet of Splenda and dumped it in her glass. “I just thought I noticed Guevara giving him some strange looks.”

Lugo took a drink from his iced tea. “Really?”

He’s not making this easy. Careful . . . “So you didn’t notice him giving you looks, like he was pissed at you or something?”

Lugo pursed his lips and shook his head. “No.”

“So you don’t know him then.”

Lugo bobbed his head. “Sort of yes, sort of no. We worked the vineyards as migrant workers back when we were teenagers. But we weren’t friends or anything.”

“Have you seen him lately? Run into him somewhere, grab a beer?”

“I haven’t talked to him in twenty years.”

Nowhere to go with that answer. He’s either telling the truth or he’s a good liar. Regardless, without causing hard feelings, Vail had to drop it here. But the more she thought about it, the stronger her sense that there was something going on between the two men. If Superior Mobile Bottling and/or César Guevara continued to remain under suspicion, she would have to convince Dixon to take the next step: check out their colleague’s story. Get his phone LUDs and see if any of Guevara’s contact numbers showed up.

Their pizzas came and Vail acknowledged the “bursting flavors.” If there was one thing about this trip she found enjoyable—other than her limited time with Robby—it was the food. She even had to admit to Dixon that the Funghi pizza was “killer.”

Now if she could just find the real killer—the Crush Killer—she’d be happy.

FORTY-SEVEN

When Vail, Dixon, and Lugo returned to the conference room, all of the task force members were present except for Burt Gordon, who had left to follow up a lead. Brix finished a phone call, then riffled through a short stack of papers, removed a document, and brought it over to Dixon.

“The board list you got from Crystal Dahlia. We should divide up the names, start running backgrounders on them.”

Vail rubbed at a kink in her neck. “Actually, if now’s a good time, we’ve got some stuff to go over with the group.”

Brix glanced around. No one was on a call, so he stood and said, “I need everyone’s attention.” He nodded to Vail.

“We just paid a visit to César Guevara, the principal at Superior Mobile Bottling. We didn’t come away with anything concrete other than some strange vibes.”

“How so?” Agbayani asked.

Dixon leaned back in her seat. “Evasive answers, nervous and defiant body language.”

“Is he alibied for any of the murders?”

“That’s where the evasive answers started. Whatever alibi he comes up with we’re going to have to hit pretty hard.”

“I got the sense there was something else going on,” Vail said. She could not bring up the interplay with Lugo, but figured she would put it out there and see what came of it. “I think we need to look hard at Guevara, and separately at Superior Mobile Bottling.”

Lugo spread his hands. “We already looked at Superior.”

“Look harder.”

“Before we get all hung up on hunches,” Austin Mann said, “what do you think about this guy from a behavioral analysis perspective?”

Vail curled some hair behind her right ear. “César Guevara is in the right age range. He runs a successful company, and he was guarded in his answers. This tells me he’s a smart guy—higher IQ—which fits with our offender. We need to run him through DMV, see what kind of car he drives. I’m betting it’s something expensive and flashy.”

Brix nodded at Lugo, who swiveled his chair over to the laptop on the conference table.

“He might have unresolved issues with his mother, which is common with narcissists. He’s defiant, even when challenged by law enforcement. He’s got a very healthy ego. If we can find out the history behind his company, we may know more. Did he start it or buy it? Does he have a partner or partners? We have to keep sight of the fact it’s called ‘Superior Mobile Bottling.’ That’d be a name a narcissist might choose for his company.”

“It could also be a name a normal businessperson might choose,” Agbayani said. “All this stuff could be explained differently. He might just be a confident and cocky asshole. It doesn’t mean he’s a serial killer.”

“He drives a Beemer,” Lugo said, staring at the onscreen data. “A five series.”

“Pricey,” Dixon said. She leaned over and made a note on her pad.

“But,” Vail said, “as Eddie pointed out, in and of itself, it doesn’t mean anything. Successful guy, making good money, buys a nice toy. Status symbol. Fun to drive.”

Dixon put down her pen. “Let’s get some background on him. Married, kids, siblings, place of birth, known acquaintances. Ray, shoot us over a copy of his CDL photo.”

Lugo went back to working the keyboard. “Emailing it to everyone.”

Vail leaned over to Dixon. “There’s something we’re missing. I’ve had this feeling all along. I don’t know what it is, but it’s eating away at me.”

“Any idea what it is?”

Vail thought a moment, then shook her head. “It’s like something on the tip of your tongue. Your brain reaches out but it just can’t grab the thought.” Vail’s BlackBerry vibrated. She checked the display: Gifford. Shit. I know what this is about. “I gotta take this,” she said, then rose and left the room. Outside, she answered the call. “Hey, boss.”

“Lenka’s booked you on Virgin, the nine thirty-five red-eye out of SFO to Dulles.”

Vail had to chuckle at the irony. That was the flight the Crush Killer supposedly took to Virginia. “I’m unfortunately familiar with that flight. But that’s not why you’re calling.”

“Actually,” Gifford said, “that is why I’m calling. Because I know that if I had Lenka call you, you’d blow her off or not answer it. Either way, it’d end up back on my desk and I’d be calling you anyway. So before you argue with me, here’s the confirmation number—”

“Sir, we’re closing in on the scumbag. We’ve got a suspect.”

“Fan-fucking-tastic. Then the good men and women of the Napa Major Crimes Task Force can take it from here. I want you on that flight.”

Vail did not reply.

“Karen, I know you heard me. Now, I want to hear you. Tell me you’re going to be on that flight.”

So . . . do I tell him I’ll be on it, when I’m not sure I will be? Or do I level with him? He’s not interested in discussing it. I’d just be wasting my time. “I still have vacation time left. I’m going to spend it with Robby. I deserve it.”

Gifford laughed, a bellicose outburst. “Do you really think you’re gonna be able to shut it out of your mind and relax while your former task force colleagues pursue these leads? I mean, are you thinking you can snow me, or are you deluding yourself?”

Why does everyone think they know me so well? “I think I can shut it down.” Okay, that’s total bullshit. But did I at least sound convincing?

A rustle of papers. “I can’t order you home because you do, in fact, have vacation days left. And you are there on vacation. Or were.” He sighed, audibly. “Karen, you’ve given me an ulcer, you know that?”

“I think you’ve already told me, sir. Again, sorry to hear that.”

“Now that I know is a lie.”

“Actually, in spite of everything, I like you, sir. You’re a good man. And given everything that’s happened recently, you’ve come through for me.”

“I’m glad you realize that. But I wanna be perfectly clear with you so there’ll be no misunderstandings later. You’re there on vacation. This isn’t some wink across the phone line for you to continue working this case. You’re off the task force effective immediately. And I’m going to call Lieutenant Brix and let him know.”

“At least give me until the evening, like our original agreement.”

“I didn’t realize we had an agreement—on anything.”

“Sir, please. Let me see this one lead through.”

There was a moment of silence while Gifford considered. “You have until 7 p.m. Then you’re done.”

Vail bit her lip. “I understand your position.” And she did, though she didn’t agree with it.

“Enjoy the rest of your vacation. Tell Hernandez I wish him luck, ’cause you’re going to be a bear to live with the next few days.”

Vail hung up, then texted Robby and told him the “good” news: that they were going to be able to spend some together on this trip, after all. She would touch base with him later about dinner because she was apparently going to be done by six. She sent the message, then pushed through the wood conference room door. She caught Brix’s attention and motioned him over to the far corner.

“Everything okay?”

“Not really.” Vail scratched at her head. “I’ve been ordered off the task force. Effective 7 p.m. My ASAC is going to call you.”

“What? We’re looking at Guevara, but we’ve still got nothing. He can’t just pull you off. We need you.”

Vail looked down at the carpet. “I tried, Brix. You know I tried.” She turned toward the windows to her left. “I’ll still be in town because I have vacation days left. But he specifically prohibited me from working with you guys.”

Brix’s phone buzzed. He locked eyes with Vail, then she walked away.

“Karen,” Dixon said. “We got another fax from Crystal Dahlia. Board bylaws.” She flipped the sheet and held up another page. “And here’s the info Kevin Cameron had promised.”

“Bad news, Roxx. Just spoke with my ASAC. It’s official. I’m off at 7 p.m.”

“Total bullshit,” Dixon said.

Vail rubbed her eyes. “Maybe it’s for the best. I’m really tired.”

“You don’t believe that.”

Vail yawned. “I am very tired.” She wore a weary smile. “But no, I don’t believe that.”

“Karen,” Brix called out. He held up his phone. “That wasn’t who we thought it was. Everyone, listen up.” He waited for Agbayani, Mann, and Lugo to make eye contact. “Just got off the phone with my wife. I’d told her we were working with a profiler, she loves that show Criminal Minds—anyway, our UNSUB took out an advertisement in today’s Press.” He looked down at his pad. “It says, ‘Karen Vail Photography. Get your profile taken, 50 percent off sale. Act now. Limited time offer.’”

“This may be our last chance,” Vail said. “Can we get hold of a copy of the ad?”

“She’s faxing it over right now.”

“We need to call the Press,” Lugo said, “see if the guy paid for it with a credit card.”

“Do it,” Dixon said.

“Was there a phone number or contact info?” Vail asked.

“Email address.”

Vail pulled her BlackBerry and started to compose a message.

“What are you doing?” Dixon asked.

“Sending him a message. I think it’s time to cut a deal.” She looked up at the others. “Anyone have a problem with going public?” Vail knew it was a sore point: Fuller had forcibly objected—as did Nance—and both had since been discredited.

Brix shook his head. “If Guevara is our guy, we don’t need to do that anymore.”

“And if he’s not,” Vail said, “we blow this chance to make contact. I can at least promise it to him. Whether we follow through with it is something we can hash out later.”

“Can we get a subpoena for Guevara’s computer and Smartphone,” Mann asked, “and any other email-enabled devices he may have?”

Agbayani said, “We should at least get someone on him, keep an eye on him.”

Dixon pulled her cell and dialed. “I don’t think we have enough for a subpoena, but I’ll see what I can do.”

Brix flipped open his phone and pressed a couple of numbers. “I’ll call Gordon. He’s only about ten minutes away from Superior. I’ll have him keep an eye on the place, give him Guevara’s Beemer plate in case he’s our guy and he goes to a cybercafé to use an anonymous PC.” He gave Gordon instructions, then closed his phone. Almost immediately, Brix’s phone rang. “Caller ID says 703 area code.”

Vail frowned. “My ASAC.”

Brix silenced the ringer, then winked. “I’ll have to call him back.” Vail smiled warmly. It really wouldn’t buy her any time with her boss, but it made her feel good. When this case started, Brix wouldn’t give her the time of day. Now, he was doing what he could to keep her on the team.

The fax machine in the corner of the room rang. As Brix retrieved the document, Vail pushed thoughts of Gifford’s directive from her mind and concentrated on the wording of the message she would send. She closed her eyes and considered what she would say. Keep it short. Unemotional. Build him up without being obvious. She typed:

Got your message. Love the ad. Very clever. I want to take advantage of your offer. Let’s make a deal. If you provide us with a list of all your victims—all of them—going back to the very first one, I’ll have the Napa Valley Press here at our offices within an hour of receipt of the list, and you’ll have a front page story in tomorrow’s paper. Let me know if those terms are acceptable.

She read it back to the task force members, who had completed their respective phone calls. They asked a few questions, but the message was largely left intact.

“Any way we can track the email?” Agbayani asked.

Lugo nodded. “If we send it from Outlook through the county’s mail server, yes.”

“But he’ll know it’s not coming from me,” Vail said. “That might spook him.”

“I can set up a mail account for you here. I can spoof it so it’ll look like your BlackBerry mail. But if he knows more than the average Joe about email, he may be able to tell.”

Dixon rose from her chair and stretched. “If he’s reading his mail in a cybercafé, I don’t think he’s going to take the time to dig into it.” She stood behind her chair and leaned on the seatback. “I think we’ll be okay.”

Vail pointed at the laptop. “Do it.”

“I’ll need some help from IT,” Lugo said. He lifted the corded room phone and dialed an extension. He pinned the handset against his shoulder with his head and configured the mail account per the tech’s instructions. He hung up and said, “I’m ready. I’ve got tracking enabled. He won’t know. We’ll see when it’s delivered to his mail server.”

Lugo sent the message, then leaned back in his chair. “Now we wait.”

The mail delivery receipt came back almost immediately; the UNSUB’s response within thirty minutes. The familiar Outlook “mail received” chime sounded. Lugo slid his chair squarely in front of the laptop and yelled, “Got something.” He opened the message and read: “I want TV news there, too. I will send you the document soon. You’ll then have sixty minutes to get a TV reporter there. I’ll know. I’ll be watching.”

“Call the news desk at KNTV,” Dixon said to Agbayani. “Tell them we need a reporter and cameraman, in a marked van. Explain to them we have an exclusive breaking story that’s fluid. But,” she said, raising a finger, “do not mention the words serial killer.”

Agbayani nodded, then pulled his phone.

“Ray,” Brix said, “anything on the tracking?”

“Delivered to the mail server. I’ll ask the IT guys to do a more thorough analysis of its path. But I would guess it’ll end up at some generic wireless connection and he’ll be long gone.”

“We don’t know if we don’t try. Have them look into it.”

FORTY MINUTES PASSED. The task force members performed follow-up on their various outstanding tasks, compared notes, and discussed the information they had amassed that had not yet been shared with the group. It didn’t necessarily get them closer to identifying the Crush Killer, but it helped pass the time while they waited for some indication that the UNSUB was going to fulfill his end of the agreement.

A reporter and photographer from the Napa Valley Press arrived and were ushered to the morgue conference room on the first floor. They were told they would likely have a major story to write about, but the investigation was in a sensitive phase. Against the promise of an important scoop, they took seats and waited.

Vail stood to stretch when her BlackBerry buzzed. She nonchalantly read the display. That’s it. “Text message. From the offender—”

package taped to silver ridge sign for you. cute trick with the email agent vail. don’t deceive me again.

Vail read it to the group.

“Let’s get a fix on him,” Dixon said. “Triangulate that text.”

Lugo grabbed the phone and started dialing.

“What’s the point?” Vail said. “If he left something for us at Silver Ridge, we know where he was—or is. Why don’t we check in with Gordon, see if Guevara has moved?”

“On it,” Brix said.

Dixon said, “Ray, cancel the triangulation and get the closest LEO over to Silver Ridge ASAP. Call CHP, see if an officer’s near. Or contact NSIB. Just get someone there fast.”

A moment later, Brix ended his call. “Gordon went in and eyeballed Guevara after I sent him over there. No one’s been in or out of Superior since. While we were on the phone, he checked in on him again. Still there.”

“CHP was nearby,” Lugo said, hanging up his phone. “They’re about to pick up the package at Silver Ridge. I told him to take photos before he picks it up. But you think—should we call in EOD, at least alert the HDTs we may have a job for them?”

“HDTs?” Vail asked.

“Hazardous Device Technicians,” Dixon said. “They handle all suspicious packages for the Explosives Ordnance Division.”

Although this offender had not yet shown any proclivity toward bombs, it was always an option for your friendly neighborhood narcissist looking to grab attention. Vail was about to weigh in when Dixon spoke up.

“Let’s first see what the package looks like before we call out the troops.”

A moment later, they had their answer: A photo came to the sheriff’s department in an email from the officer on-scene. The phone rang and Lugo picked it up. “Yeah, patch her through.” He covered the receiver and said, “The officer’s on the line. Putting it on speaker.”

“Hello? This is Davina Erickson with CHP. I just sent you a photo—”

“This is Roxxann Dixon, Major Crimes Task Force. We’ve got the photo.” She bent over the laptop and scrutinized the image. “Looks like a USB flash drive. Is that what it is?”

“Yes, ma’am. Secured with masking tape to the Silver Ridge landmark sign.”

“Okay,” Dixon said. “Carefully remove the tape and preserve any fingerprints that might be on it. Secure the area as a crime scene. I’ll send a CSI to document it. But get that flash drive over to us as fast as you can.”

“Lights and siren, got it,” Erickson said. “Do you want me to leave before the scene is secured?”

Brix snapped his handset shut, then turned toward the speaker phone. “This is Lieutenant Redmond Brix. St. Helena PD just dispatched an officer to secure it. Soon as he arrives, get that flash over here.”

“Ten-four.”

Lugo disconnected the call.

Vail rose from her seat and paced. In a matter of minutes, they would have some answers. And hopefully some way of tracking the offender. But no matter what information they obtained from that flash drive, it would be more than they had now.

She glanced at the clock: 4:05. Less than three hours before she was supposed to walk out the door, officially on vacation. How the hell am I going to do that? Can’t deal with that now. She turned away. “Anyone know how USB drives work?”

Agbayani looked up from his pages of notes. “Beyond the obvious, you mean.”

“Yeah,” Vail said. “Like what can we tell from the device?”

Lugo lifted the receiver. “I’ll call down, see what the geeks can do for us.”

As Lugo made the call, Agbayani held up his notepad. “Did anyone happen to notice when Maryanne Bernal was murdered?”

Dixon held up a hand in a gesture that said, of course. “About three years ago.”

“And . . .” Agbayani said, as if they should all suddenly “get it.” When no one replied, he said, “That was around the time the Georges Valley AVA board was discussing Superior Bottling’s first contract. Right? It’s now up for renewal. The initial term was three years. Maybe Maryanne was against it back when she was on the board.”

“And she was killed because of her opposition to the contract?” Vail asked.

Agbayani nodded.

“I’ve got a problem with that. It just doesn’t fit. Roxxann and I have been through this. Serial killers don’t kill for money, they kill because it fulfills a psychosexual need that’s rooted in their past.” Actually, male serial killers don’t kill for profit. For now, she was comfortable rejecting the possibility the killer was a woman. But if the offender was a man, it could mean they were seeing something different here. She had to be more flexible in her thinking.

“Still,” Agbayani said, “I think we should look into it.”

Dixon pulled her phone. “I’ll call Ian Wirth, ask him about Maryanne and see if that was the case.”

“I’ve got an answer for us on the USB device.” Lugo leaned back in his chair and swiveled to face everyone. “We can track the device to a particular PC, maybe get a set of prints off the keyboard and desk if they haven’t been used. But it doesn’t give us a location, so unless we know where that PC is located, it won’t tell us where to find it.”

“So in a legal sense, if we know what PC he used, we can prove it in court by tracing the USB to a specific PC.”

“Yes. According to Matt Aaron, when a flash drive is inserted into a PC, Windows logs it and writes a little bit of code to the drive to make a record of the device. This ensures the operating system doesn’t get confused when you insert or remove it. It also records successful file transfers and even the file transferred and when. He also said the drives have serial numbers embedded in them as well as the manufacturer, model, and device characteristics. So once we get the UNSUB’s file off it, maybe we can trace it, see where he bought the flash.” He tossed his pen on the table. “As if that’s gonna do us a whole lot of good. Other than wasting more time.”

The conference room phone rang. Lugo looked at it, then sighed and leaned forward to pick it up. He listened a moment, then said, “Erickson just delivered the flash drive. Aaron’s got it.”

Vail leaned both elbows on the desk and ran fingers through her hair. This has to be it. For me, at least, time is running out. Just like it could be running out on the next victim.

MINUTES PASSED. The room phone rang. Lugo answered it, listened, then told the caller to hold.

“KNTV’s downstairs. They’re ready to go. But they want to know what the story’s about so they can set up the shot.”

Brix and Dixon shared a look. Vail knew what they were thinking. All the pieces were in place and things were coming to a head.

“Have them set up in the second floor lobby,” Dixon said. “Tell them there might be a wait because we’re engaged in sensitive negotiations. But we think it’ll be worth their while.”

After Lugo relayed the message and hung up, the tone from Outlook indicated a new email had arrived. He slid his chair forward and checked out the message. “Aaron sent us the document. It’s a PowerPoint file.”

“Can you put it up on the screen?” Vail asked.

“Yeah,” Lugo said. He thumbed the white remote control to his left and the screen unfurled from the ceiling. He pressed a couple of buttons on the laptop, the projector flickered to life, and the Windows desktop appeared on-screen. Lugo double-clicked the PowerPoint attachment and it opened.

“Napa Crush Killer” appeared in bold letters on the first slide.

“May I?” Vail asked.

Lugo handed over the remote and Vail advanced to the next slide: a list of nine names.

Vail felt a pounding in her head. “Holy shit. If this is real, he held up his end of the bargain. Which means we need to, also.”

Dixon pointed at the screen. “Ray, print this page.”

Lugo was staring at the screen, but didn’t move.

Dixon looked over at Lugo. “Ray. Print the list.”

“Yeah, yeah. Okay.” His mouse movements appeared on-screen as he sent the page to the printer.

Vail scanned the list: there were names missing. It was incomplete—but she would worry about that in a minute. Next slide. A video file was embedded. “Double-click that,” she told Lugo.

Lugo’s mouse pointer skidded across the screen and found the image. The video jumped to life. Onscreen: a shaky, dark, grainy, moving image of a lifeless woman.

“Oh, shit,” Agbayani said. “Don’t tell me this is what I think it is.”

Vail rubbed her forehead. It was exactly what Agbayani thought it was. She wanted to divert her eyes, but she couldn’t. This was her job, what she signed up for. And unfortunately, watching videos of an offender’s handiwork was becoming a more frequent occurrence.

“Audio,” she said, her voice coarse, strained. “Is there audio?” Lugo pulled his eyes from the screen and pressed a button.

Sound filled the room’s speakers. But the offender wasn’t speaking. His breathing could be heard, rapid. The bastard’s excited. He’s loving this. “Son of a bitch.” Vail realized she was balling her right fist so hard her knuckles hurt.

The camera panned down and showed what looked like a hand—no, a wrist. Blood oozing. It ran a few more seconds, then ended.

Without a word, Vail pushed the remote to the next slide. Still photos of other victims she did not recognize. She paged through them, stopping long enough at each photo for everyone to get a look at the victim’s face. “We’ve got a problem.”

“Not all the vics are accounted for,” Dixon said. “But there are plenty we didn’t know about.”

“No names on the pictures,” Brix said. “There’s no way for us to match up those photos with missing persons, unsolved cases. Shit, we don’t even know if these vics are from California.”

“I only recognize Dawn Zackery and Betsy Ivers,” Vail said. She was reluctant to broach the subject, but sooner or later, someone would. “No photo of Fuller.”

No one commented.

Finally, Vail said, “Okay, so we’ve got some questions that need answers. Let’s keep the line of communication open with him. We should send him an email so he knows we’re going to keep up our part of the deal and ask him who the hell these other vics are.” She looked at Dixon for approval.

Dixon appeared distracted, staring at the screen and not responding. Finally, she said, “Do we want to do that? I mean, he didn’t keep up his part of the bargain. We said all vics. We wanted a list of all his vics. He didn’t give us that.”

“You want to argue with him?” Vail asked. “At this point, I think that’s the wrong move.”

Dixon sat back hard. “Yeah, okay. Fine.”

Vail looked around at everyone’s body language. They were slumped in their seats. All were looking off, lost in thought. “Hey,” Vail said. “This is good. We’ve got a lot more than we had an hour ago.”

Failing to get a response, she pulled her BlackBerry and began composing a reply:

Thanks for cooperating. We need time to go through this. As promised, reporters from the press and kntv are here. We’re calling the mayor and will keep up our end of the deal. There’ll be something on the 11 o’clock news and a front page article in tomorrow’s paper. We need your help with something. We’re confused because there are victims we don’t know about and we can’t match their names to their photos. And I’m sure you can enlighten us as to why victoria cameron, ursula robbins, isaac jenkins, maryanne bernal, and scott fuller aren’t on your list. Please reply to this email or leave us another flash drive. Thanks again for your cooperation.

Vail read the proposed message to the task force members. “Comments?”

Lugo turned to her, slowly. His face was hard, his jaw set. “I hate this fucker. Why are we sucking up to him? That email sucks. We should tell him to go fuck himself.”

“Ray,” Vail said calmly, “this offender is a narcissist. We’ll get more by being subservient to him, by showing him respect and deference. Our goal, our only goal, is to catch the bastard. If we piss him off and he cuts off communication with us, we may not have another opportunity to achieve our one and only objective.”

“Send it,” Dixon said. She looked over at Brix, who nodded agreement.

Vail said, “I’m emailing this to you, Ray. Send it through Outlook, like you did before.”

“But he didn’t like that—”

“I want his response coming to you guys. In a little while . . .” She couldn’t bring herself to say it. “I just want the communication to go to the sheriff’s department mail server, not my BlackBerry.”

Brix sighed deeply, then pushed himself from his chair. “I’ll call the Mayor. And Congressman Church. And Stan Owens. We’ll all need to huddle on this media story. I’ll tell the reporters we’ll have something for them around nine. Roxx, as lead, I think you should be the face of the investigation. Agreed?”

Dixon nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

Brix pulled his phone to make the calls. Vail looked at the screen, where the image of an unnamed woman lay. The mask of death draped across her face.

FORTY-EIGHT

Burt Gordon walked into the room and nodded at the people who looked up. “I handed off the Guevara surveillance to a couple guys from NSIB. But I have doubts about him being our UNSUB.” He glanced at the screen, then froze.

“Hate to say it,” Dixon said, “but it’s beginning to look that way.”

Vail felt like saying, “I’ve always had doubts about him. It just doesn’t fit.” But she didn’t. She’d already voiced her opinion. And she hadn’t had anything better to offer.

A call came through on the room phone. Lugo picked it up, then pressed a button. “It’s Aaron.”

Matthew Aaron’s voice filtered through the speaker. “Redd, you there?”

Brix, leaning against the wall, said, “We’re here, Matt. Got anything for us?”

“You’re not going to like it. We’ve traced the flash drive to a PC right here at the SD.”

Brix pushed away from the wall and walked closer to the phone’s speaker. “What?”

“I watched the cybergeeks do their thing, and they’re sure about it. I’ve had them lock down the room. I’m gonna go over there in a minute and start dusting.”

Brix shook his head. “How can that be? It’s a secure facility. You need a prox card—”

“Yeah, that’s the thing. Turns out there was a prox card lost about three weeks ago. Shil-ray Simmons. I just talked with her, took her to task, questioned her pretty hard. She said she thought she just misplaced it and was afraid to report it lost. Nothing was missing, nothing was reported stolen in the building, so she figured it’d turn up, that it was just misplaced in a drawer somewhere.”

Brix’s face shaded red. “What the hell was she thinking? Evidence could’ve been tampered with, cases could’ve been compromised.” He leaned a hand on the wall. “And what were you thinking, questioning her? You’re a CSI, Matt.”

“I was just trying to help. I uncovered the missing card, didn’t I?”

Brix swiped a hand down his face. “We’ll discuss this later. Have they deactivated the stolen card?”

“Already done.”

“Fine. There are database records entries for every swipe each card makes. Get a printout of that log. Which doors, which times, which days.” He motioned to Lugo, who clicked off the call.

“So our UNSUB’s got someone on the inside,” Vail said. “Or he is someone on the inside and he used Simmons’s card to cover his tracks. He had to know sooner or later the card would be reported missing.”

Brix nodded. “Ray, have Lily in HR print us out a list of all county employees. I want to know everyone who’s had access to the sheriff’s department facility. Include contract workers. Everyone.”

Lugo made a note on his pad. “And you want this tomorrow, I take it.”

“No,” Brix said with a tight mouth. “I want it today.”

“And have them pull the surveillance video for the past week before it gets overwritten,” Dixon said. “We’re gonna have to go through it all, correlate it with the doors that card opened, see if we can ID the fucker who stole it.”

“They already pulled the video when Karen got that letter,” Lugo said.

“That may be all we need,” Agbayani said. “Have Aaron look at the date the PowerPoint document was created and last modified. That’ll tell us when the UNSUB was in the building.”

“Yes, yes,” Brix said. “Perfect. Then match it up with the swipes of that prox card. And find out what’s taking them so goddamn long with that video. Did they find anything or not? Got all that, Ray?”

Lugo tossed down his pen. “Yeah. Got it.” He swung his chair around, rose, and walked out of the room.

Dixon watched him leave, then said, “Is it me, or has he been on edge lately?”

Brix walked to the whiteboard. “We’ve all been on edge. With everything that’s gone on this past week, I think we’re holding up pretty goddamn good.” He waved a hand. “Ray’ll be fine. Besides, we’ve got other things to worry about. We don’t know for sure this card was used by our UNSUB. But it’s highly probable. Now I’m assuming no one on the task force is our guy. But that still leaves a lot of county employees, a lot of ’em in this building, who could’ve palmed that card. So from this point forward, no one’s to share any information with anyone. Have it go through me. I’ll control all info in and out. So don’t leave any important papers lying around.”

Vail snapped her fingers. “That’s how the offender got my phone number, how he started texting me. Those sheets you printed up and gave out with everyone’s cell numbers. He was here, in this room.”

“Shit.” Dixon looked around, acutely conscious of her surroundings. “What else could he have taken or seen? The whiteboard—”

The door swung open. Lugo stood there, his face crumpled in thought.

“Forget something?” Brix asked.

Lugo stepped in and let the door close behind him. “Your PC has all sorts of personally identifiable information buried in it. Like what Eddie was saying, about the date the document was created. But there’s a lot more info on there. Every single document you create embeds info that it takes from your computer.”

“I know a guy at Microsoft who’s helped me out before,” Agbayani said. He checked the room clock. “It’s late, but maybe I can catch him.”

“Do it,” Dixon said. “Burt, can you run down and take care of that other stuff Ray was doing? The video, county list—”

“Got it,” Gordon said, then left the room.

Agbayani settled himself in front of the conference room laptop and logged in to Windows Live Messenger. “Cool, he’s online. We’re in business.” He clicked, Start a live video call. It rang through the speakers, then the ringing abruptly stopped and a face and torso filled the screen.

“Tomás, how goes it?”

“Eddie, my man. Still catching bad guys?”

“That’s what I’m calling about. I’ve got a thing here and I need to pick your geek brain.”

“I’m out the door for a meeting in the EBC—I mean, the Executive Briefing Center. A delegation of security people from China are here to discuss a new relational database. My boss will have my head if I try to cut out early. Can it wait?”

Agbayani looked off to Brix, then back to the screen. “The sooner the better. We’re really under the gun on this one. It’s bad.”

“What’s the deal?”

“We got an Office document written by a serial killer,” Agbayani said as he opened Outlook and started a new email. “PowerPoint. We need you to crack it. The embedded info.”

Tomás tapped his #2 Black Warrior pencil on the desk. “Okay, send it over. I’ll get started on it as soon as I’m done with the meeting. How about I get back to you in two hours or so?”

Agbayani hit Send and the Crush Killer’s files were on their way. “That’d be great, Tomás. Looks like we’ve got RoundTable in the sheriff’s department here, so we can video conference with the task force. And—same as before—this is confidential shit, don’t be circulating it around the campus. And for your sake, don’t view its contents. It’ll chill your flabby geek ass.”

“That’s a geek ass of steel, bro.” The Outlook chime sounded and Tomás’s eyes canted down, away from the camera. “Got the email. Be good. Catch you later.”

The Live Messenger webcam screen went blank.

“Great work, Eddie,” Brix said. “Ray, email a copy of that PowerPoint file to the video guys and have them analyze the clips. Maybe something in the background’ll tip off the UNSUB’s location—a site-specific sound, a landmark sign, whatever. Eddie, you, me, and Burt, when he gets back, will work on the vics in the file. Austin, Roxxi, Karen, why don’t you three take a break, grab some dinner, meet back here in a couple hours. I think we’re gonna be here all night. We’ll work in shifts.”

Vail caught his gaze and silently reminded him she would need to leave them at seven. Brix nodded, the twist of his lips indicating disappointment.

She thought of sticking around to help out. But there was nothing more for her to do at the moment. They now had a dialogue going with the offender, and the key would be in his reply to their email. Her advice at that point would be critical, but until then, her expertise was not needed. And she would be back before her deadline to lend whatever final thoughts she had to offer.

Brix turned toward the whiteboard to make some notes. “Oh, Roxx—bring back a few of those pizzas.”

“From Azzurro?” Dixon asked.

“Best in town.”

Dixon glanced at Vail. “We just had that for lunch.”

“Hey, life’s tough all over. See you in a couple. Maybe by then we’ll have something back from Microsoft.”

FORTY-NINE

Austin Mann had an errand to tend to, while Vail and Dixon ran over to Fit1! for a quick workout. They put their clothing in lockers, then headed out onto the gym floor. Because it was dinner time, only a few dedicated gym rats were still there, pressing weights and cycling.

Vail migrated to the Life Fitness elliptical to get in some needed work on her knee, while Dixon headed to the Ivanko barbells and Hammer Strength machines.

Vail punched the program buttons, then began pumping her legs and moving her arms. Five minutes in, her mind cleared and her thoughts turned to James Cannon, the guy she met here yesterday. Something about him. What is it? That whole exchange bothered her. What was it? Think . . . He’d said, “FBI, very cool . . . I feel like we’ve met before.” Did he say that because he’d sent me letters and text messages and emails? Is that what he was implying? Or was he just hitting on me?

Vail stopped moving and stood there on the machine, sorting it through. She climbed down off the elliptical and went back to her locker, pulled her BlackBerry, and dialed Lugo.

“Ray, it’s Karen. Listen, can you check something for me? You’ve got your ear to the ground in the wine country, right?”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

“Ever hear of Herndon Vineyards?”

“Doesn’t ring a bell. Where’s it located? The Valley? Sonoma, Healdsburg—”

“Don’t know. All I can tell you is they have great soil for growing Cabernet. Not sure that helps much.”

“Actually, it might.”

“Winemaker’s name is James Cannon.”

“Two n’s or one?”

“Your choice. No clue.”

“Anything in particular you’re interested in?”

Vail narrowed her eyes as she thought. “Nothing I can put my finger on. Just some vibes. Probably nothing. This guy, James Cannon. Roxxann and I met him yesterday. Said he was a winemaker for an upstart winery named Herndon Vineyards. They’re due to put out their first bottles of wine in a couple years.”

“Okay.”

Vail flashed on the letter the UNSUB had sent them. “He knew about the historic wine cave where we found Ursula Robbins.”

“Who, James Cannon knew?”

“No, no. Our UNSUB. I’m thinking out loud. The letter the UNSUB sent to me a couple of days ago. He knew about that vintage wine in the cave that had collapsed a hundred years ago. And he talked about ‘the crush of grapes.’ He might be someone who’d know his way around a wine cave like the one at Silver Ridge.” She stopped a moment. “I—I didn’t think of this before, but he’s dumped his bodies in vineyards and wine caves. Maybe there’s some significance to that. A guy who’s spent years plying his trade in vineyards and wine caves is comfortable there. I kept thinking it had to do with access, but . . .” She thought a second. “I don’t know. Maybe this is bullshit.”

“I’m looking up Herndon now. I don’t see anything. No press releases, nothing online in public sources. That’s not unusual, though I’d think they would’ve issued a press release either announcing the winery, or the purchase of land and their business plans. I’ll have to do some more digging in the law enforcement databases.” Vail could hear the clicking of keys. “Zippo on a James Cannon. I’ll run him, too. I should have something in an hour or two, definitely by the time you get back here.”

“Thanks, Ray.”

Vail put her phone back in the locker and took a deep breath. It was probably nothing. But they were desperate, grasping at things they may not normally give any serious attention. Working out often helped clear her mind, got her thinking in ways she couldn’t do in the stress of the moment. She grabbed her towel and headed back out to the elliptical.

DIXON, AT THE FAR END of the gym, worked her lower body with the assistance of her new workout partner, George Panda.

Vail approached, dabbing a towel at the perspiration rolling off her reddened face. “Hey, George. Didn’t realize you were here.”

“Roxxann texted me, told me she was here. I’d been chained to my desk all day and hadn’t gotten in my workout, so she did me a huge favor. My office is only a few minutes down the road.”

Vail tilted her head back and appraised Dixon. “Now I know why you wanted to ‘squeeze in’ a workout today.”

Dixon blushed. “Karen—”

“Just giving you shit,” Vail said. She stole a look around. “Jimmy with you?”

Panda glanced at the wall clock. “Should be here in a little bit.”

“I’m gonna go shower and dress. I’ll call in the pizzas so we can grab and run. Meet you out front.”

“I’ll catch up with you,” Dixon said as she bent over to wipe the bench with her towel. “I’m just gonna snag five minutes in the steam room.”

As Vail headed toward the lockers, Panda said, “You doing upper body tomorrow?”

“Who knows.” Dixon tossed the towel across her shoulder. “Work has a way of interfering. But if not tomorrow, maybe the day after.”

Panda pulled a plate off his bar and set it down. “Last minute works, too.”

Dixon’s conversation with Agbayani flashed through her thoughts. She pushed it aside. She needed to find out if there was anything in George Panda worth pursuing. “You know,” she said as she tossed her towel into the hamper, “we should schedule a time to go to dinner. I may not be able to commit to a full evening until this case breaks, but I’m sure I can get away for an hour or two.”

Panda grinned. “I’d like that.”

AS EVENING FELL ON NAPA, it was a common time for people to get in their exercise after leaving work. But John Wayne Mayfield was heading to work, in a sense—a swing shift of sorts.

He stood outside the women’s locker room, his pulse pounding. Killing someone in a public place, where anyone could walk in on you, at any time, was the ultimate challenge. The ultimate thrill.

But he would have to be careful—being discovered in the ladies’ shower and dressing area, if there were women in there, was risky at best—and irreparable at worst. If caught, he would do his best to feign surprise at his bone-headed mistake of walking into the wrong locker room. Hopefully he could sell the “stupid me” act well enough to get him out of there without a call to the authorities.

Mayfield had already scoped out the women’s lockers during a slow time when almost no one was in the gym. He was thus familiar with the layout, and, as it was, he would enter and hang an immediate left, which would take him to the steam room. Veering right would instead take him to the locker area.

He wished he’d had time to watch the door, so he could know how many women were in there. But because of the room’s layout, he’d be able to enter and turn toward the stream room without being seen by others in the vicinity. That’s where he would go first.

Seconds ticking. Pulse pounding.

Mayfield pushed through the locker room door slowly, his head down. He moved in, turned left, all the while listening. The echoing sizzle of a shower in the distance. Eyes scanning the floor around him, looking for feet—for trouble.

He strode purposely down the narrow corridor, his shoes squeaking against the wet cement floor. There it was—on his left—the glass door to the steam room. It was opaque, the view impeded by thick vapor. He pushed in. The loud hissing of the jets and dense steam deadened all noise.

The odor of eucalyptus oil stung his nose. He hated that smell. It made his throat close down.

He stood there a second, his eyes darting around, looking for a body. There—sitting on the top step—was Roxxann Dixon. He moved forward, the swirl of steam moving aside as he approached, fearful of his presence. Like she should be—would be—in a matter of seconds.

FIFTY

Brix was looking at a database onscreen with Agbayani when an instant message came through:

I told my boss what you needed and he let me leave early. still in the executive briefing center. you ready to login with roundtable?

Agbayani typed back:

you bet. give me a sec.

“Hey,” Brix said. “We’ve got Microsoft online. Have a seat and Eddie will link us all in.”

Mann, Gordon, Brix, and Lugo took their chairs while Agbayani opened Office Live Meeting and got RoundTable online.

All of the task force members appeared on the large, wall-mounted flat screen. The 360-degree panoramic camera and associated software knitted them together into a virtually seamless image.

“Cool stuff,” Lugo said.

“We’re on,” Agbayani said. “Everyone, meet Tomás Palmer, Senior Security Program Manager at Microsoft.” Agbayani made introductions of the task force members. “The way RoundTable works is that you’re all on camera in the video panorama at the bottom of the screen. Whoever is speaking loudest will appear in a close-up at the top left.” He turned back to Microsoft’s RoundTable device, a small circular unit about the size of a dollar bill, with a central telescoping extension that contained the camera. “Tomás, it’s all yours.”

“I’ve got some pretty cool technology here, so I may as well use it to show you what I’ve got so far on your document.”

“Sounds to me like an excuse to play with the new toys,” Agbayani said.

Tomás smiled. “You know it.” He sat at the far end of a long, empty conference table. Behind him was a flat panel that nearly filled the wall. “I’ve got a monitor in front of me. I’m seeing what you’re seeing on the large screen behind me.” Images popped up; Tomás flicked them aside with his fingers.

“Whoa,” Brix said, staring at the screen. “What is that?”

“Surface technology. C’mon, Eddie, you haven’t told them about Surface?”

“Another time. The documents—”

“It’s okay, bro. I can multitask. Surface is a PC that’s embedded in a tabletop with Microsoft’s touch interface. There’s no keyboard or mouse. You move things across the screen with your hands and fingers. Like the technology Hollywood envisioned in the movie, Minority Report.” He swiped his hand across the monitor. Icons whisked by and spun across the screen. He spread his fingers apart and the image in front of him instantly enlarged. “Okay, here’s the document you sent me.”

“This is the PowerPoint file, right?”

“Yeah, and now I know why you told me not to look. Bad shit there, bro. Be really cool if I could help you catch this psycho sicko.”

“It’d be more than cool. You have any luck?”

“First thing I did was to take the jpegs that are embedded in the file and applied some new technology out of Carnegie Mellon. This stuff is gonna blow your mind. The computer analyzes the image and determines where in the world it was taken.”

“There are a few photos we really need to place,” Brix said. “If you could help with that, you’ll be my new best friend.”

Tomás’s eyes swung left, then right. “Right. Well, in spite of that, I do have some answers.”

“What does it do?” Lugo asked. “Look for similar shapes and landmarks?”

“No, not landmarks. That’d be too limiting. It records the distribution of textures, colors, lines, vegetation and topography in the photo and then compares it to the database they’ve created using GPS-tagged images in Flickr.”

“The online photo album site?”

“Yup. So here’s what I’ve got. The first three photos appear to be from Albuquerque, New Mexico, the next two from Southern California and the last two from Northern California.”

“Ray,” Brix said, “when the dust settles, contact Albuquerque PD and tell them we have the killer of three of their unsolveds. Pull the jpeg images from the PowerPoint and email them the photos. Do the same for SoCal.”

Mann pointed at his pad. “Other than his trip up north in ’98, looks like he came from Albuquerque, shot west along I-40 to L.A., then worked his way up the state.” He touched the pen to the paper with each location, as if it were a map. To Tomás, he said, “Can this image analysis technology also date the photo?”

“No,” Tomás said. “But it’s funny you should ask. I started thinking, if your bad guy took any of these photos with a GPS-enabled phone, the time, date, and place of the picture would be embedded in the photo. When I looked at the individual image files, some were taken with a regular digital camera, and they’re time-and date-stamped. I’ve got the camera model and exposure for each photo, but that’s not going to help you.

“I can’t be sure the dates and times are accurate because it depends on whether the owner input the correct data when he set up the camera. But as it turns out, the later pictures were shot with a GPS-enabled camera phone, and one was taken near downtown Los Angeles. We’ve also got a scanned photo, and when you scan film prints, the scanner leaves behind embedded data in the digital file that’s created. This picture was scanned March 9, 1998.”

Brix shot a glance around the room. “That would fit with the Marin County vic found near the Golden Gate.”

“What can you tell us about the document itself?” Agbayani asked.

“Lots of good stuff,” Tomás said. “First, let me ask you something. What do you think this killer’s deal is? You think he wants publicity?”

Lugo looked up from his notes. “Yeah, that’s exactly what we think. Why?”

“Well, I assume if he wants publicity, you want to minimize that, to reduce panic.”

“That’s one theory,” Brix said. “Why do you ask?”

Tomás shrugged. “This killer could post the PowerPoint document on some websites with unique tags and let search engines ‘find’ it, then use a kiddy script virus kit to create a virus that would then spread. It’d be disseminated from thousands of computers.”

Brix sighed deeply. “Well, that’s fucking great.” He rubbed his eyes and said, “Let’s hope our UNSUB is not that tech savvy. Can you tell anything from the document that would indicate his level of sophistication?”

Tomás bobbed his head. “I’d say he’s more knowledgeable than the average computer user, but he’s not a hacker or anything like that. So if his intent is to try to wreak the most havoc possible, and he knows something like that virus kit exists, he’d still have to research it. But you can find out how to build a bomb on the Internet from household items, so yeah, it’s possible he could create this virus even if he’s not an expert.”

“What about the document itself?” Mann asked.

“Okay. Here’s the deal. Office documents contain more information than what you see when you open the file. There’s a good deal of PII—Personally Identifiable Information—that’s kept in the document to help the user. It’s called metadata, like that embedded time and date info in the digital photos. Metadata’s stuff like word count, number of lines and characters, and so on. It’ll also tell you how many times the document was revised, how long the author spent editing it, who saved it, when it was printed, and what printer printed it.

“You can cleanse the document, but you have to know this metadata exists in the first place, and then you have to know what to do to get rid of it. Your killer used Office 2007, which has a built-in feature called Document Inspector that scrubs away just about all PII. But it’s something you have to actively apply, and lucky for us, your guy didn’t use it. That’s why I think his level of sophistication is good, but not high. Anyway, I used some custom cracking tools—including my favorite, the Palmer Plunger—and a couple other security tools from our Honey Monkey project.” He looked at the camera and winked. “Silly sounding stuff, I know. But if it works, the embedded PII becomes the bread-crumb trail your killer left behind for us.”

He flicked a document aside and spread his fingers to enlarge a printout that looked like rudimentary computer text.

“So here’s the info we’ve got.” He moved his finger toward the top of the screen and the long document scrolled top to bottom. “You want the name of the guy who created this document?”

Brix sat forward in his chair. “You got the killer’s name?”

Tomás moved the page a bit and zoomed in on lines of text. “I’ve got the name of the computer user who registered the software on this particular PC. If it’s a real name or an alias, I have no way of knowing.”

“And?” Brix asked. “What’s the name?”

Tomás looked away from the camera, said something to someone off screen, then turned back to Lugo. “I’ve got it right here.” Tomás zoomed again and a name filled the screen. “John Mayfield.”

Brix’s eyes widened. “Holy shit. We’ve really got a name?” He reached for the phone.

“Hold it,” Tomás said. “Before you make any calls. There’s another name embedded, so I asked the licensing team to check the database used for binding the registered user to the software. Just to try to verify if that name is real or not.”

“And?” Agbayani asked.

“And the software was registered to a John Mayfield. So Mayfield appears to check out. But I don’t know what to make of this other name. The document’s author. Both names could be real, or they could be fake, I’ve no way of telling.”

“What’s the other name?” Brix yelled.

“Right here.” Tomás flicked the screen and it scrolled down. Tapped it again and it stopped. Zoomed. “There. The document’s author.”

FIFTY-ONE

There she was. Naked. Hair clipped back. Dixon looked up—surprise—

“George—what the hell are you doing in here?”

Panda smiled disarmingly and stepped forward, then grabbed Dixon beneath her armpits and threw her across the room, into the opposing wall. A flat tile wall, perfect for his needs.

Dixon slipped on the wet tile and went down hard. Panda turned and grabbed her. She shook her head, fighting through the momentary daze. He lifted her off the ground and pounded her against the wall. Clamped his left hand across her mouth. Grabbed her left bicep and squeezed. “Very good, Roxxann. Very nice.”

Dixon yelled and kicked, her right foot slipping on the moist floor—and landed a knee to his groin. But it didn’t matter because he was wearing a cup. It landed impotently against the hard plastic.

That didn’t stop her. She kicked again, in the thigh, and then again. The last one knocked him back a bit—she had powerful legs. He’d have bruises for sure, but again, it was nothing he couldn’t handle.

He brought his right forearm out in front of him and grinned, then bent his elbow and slammed his arm into her throat. Her body rebounded against the tile, but his forearm bounced back. Her neck muscles had prevented the crushing blow.

Panda leaned back and thrust forward again, and this time he had greater impact, because her eyes bulged and she coughed. Hard.

But a crashing blow to his right cheek knocked him back and temporarily blinded him. What the fuck was that?

She yelled—hoarse, loud—

But it disappeared into the deadening fog.

And then she landed another blow, from the left, across his jaw—blinding pain—and he staggered back. He saw her darting around his side. No—can’t let her get away—

He reached out and grabbed her arm—slipped off the wet skin—but he’d gotten just enough because she went sprawling forward. He swung hard, connected with something, and he felt her body jolt. He wasn’t sure what he hit, but all that mattered was that it was her. And he wanted to do it again.

Panda reached back and swung again, and hit hard flesh again. He thought he heard a cry, but in the jet-noise and dense fog, it was swallowed whole, absorbed into nothingness.

He leaned over for a better look—he’d finish her on the ground if need be—and saw a blur of skin in front of him—reached out and grabbed—felt a breast and pulled her body against his. She was facing away, which would not do. He needed to watch her face. As he squeezed the life out of her.

FIFTY-TWO

The air in the locker room was damp, with a musty, stale smell. Vail sat on the brown resin bench to tie her shoes, the repetitive beat of some inane pop song droning through the speakers. The workout refreshed her, gave her a jolt of needed energy and a renewed outlook that they were going to catch the Crush Killer . . . sooner rather than later. Hopefully Agbayani’s Microsoft contact would be able to extract hidden information from the document. But even if he couldn’t, she still had the sense they were getting close.

Vail was reaching back into the locker for her phone when the BlackBerry buzzed. “Vail.”

“Karen, it’s Brix. I tried Roxxann, but she didn’t answer. Where the hell is she?”

“We’re at the gym, working out. Why?”

“We got an ID on the killer—the document he sent, that Microsoft guy said that unless he’s using an alias or someone else’s PC, the name we’ve got is John Mayfield. My sense is that’s his real name. But there’s another name embedded. George Panda. We’re putting out an APB for both—”

“Wait—George Panda, are you sure?”

“Yeah, he’s—”

“He’s here, Brix—at Fit1.”

“Fucking A. Keep an eye on him. We’re on our way. Do not engage until you’ve got backup. You hear me, Karen? Do not—”

FIFTY-THREE

John Wayne Mayfield—a.k.a. George Panda—struggled to turn Dixon around while maintaining a tight hold on her body, determined not to let her land anymore punches. They did an awkward dance as he drove her forward, smashing against the tile seat. She swung her elbow back, landing a soft blow against his left bicep. He continued to wrestle with her—until he finally gained leverage and spun her fully onto her back.

He was now over her.

And there was little she could do to hurt him. He clapped his hand over her mouth, but she knocked it away, then clawed at his face, scratching his cheek. It reminded him of a rough sexual encounter he had as a child. Sexual encounter my ass—the bitch raped me.

He growled—fuming at the memory. Yet relieved he finally had Roxxann Dixon where he wanted her. “Say good-bye, Roxxann,” he said close to her face, then slammed his hand over her mouth again. He would squeeze her carotids, cut her blood supply, then have his way with her body. It wouldn’t be what he wanted, but at this point, he had to think about survival: If he got caught, it’d all be over. And as good as he was, the longer he remained in this steam room, the higher the risk he’d get caught. Better to get rid of her, then live to kill another day.

He clamped his large right hand across her neck and squeezed. She should feel the pressure building in her head. In five seconds, her brain would be hungry for oxygen. But there won’t be any. And then, sleep. Unconscious.

But Dixon swung her arms upward, slamming against his forearm and knocking his hand off her neck. Fuck—he withdrew the hand from her mouth to catch himself from falling over—just as she swung her head forward and slammed it into his nose. He heard a crunch—his vision blurred—his hearing blunted—and he staggered back and off her, twisting around, where—

—he could see, at the door, a dark, amorphous silhouette.

The steam room jets stopped. Numbing quiet.

But then, somewhere in the distance, Dixon was yelling and kicking, trying to get his weight completely off her legs.

He felt a blow to the back of his neck—not enough to make him go down, but the door, now a foot from his face—was swinging open. He powered forward and lunged, slamming his weight against it. The glass shattered into hundreds of pieces and the wood frame flew open, into the person who was behind it.

He stumbled out, down the corridor, toward the exit. Right now, it was about survival.

Another victim

Another day

Survival—

FIFTY-FOUR

Vail picked herself up off the damp floor—her pants were now wet—and watched as the man—Panda?—ran down the hall.

“Hey, stop!”

“Karen—”

Vail turned, her shoes crunching and slipping in the glass fragments. Standing naked in the steam room, steadying herself against the doorway, was Dixon.

“Roxx—you okay?”

“Get him—Panda—he’s the killer—”

Yeah, I got that. A little late, but I got it. Vail took off.

“Meet me out front at the car—” Vail yelled back at Dixon, then burst through the locker room entrance, nearly running over another woman heading toward her. Vail pushed her aside and saw Panda running out Fit1!’s front door. Vail ran across the padded rubber workout flooring and hit the door before it closed. In the glow of the parking lot’s lights, she saw Panda in the street, running along Highway 29. He veered too far right into the roadway. Headlights. Blaring horn. And the oncoming car swerved around him.

Vail looked back, hoping to see Dixon emerging—with the keys to the car—but she wasn’t there and Vail couldn’t risk losing him. Bad knee or not, she took off after him. Pulled her BlackBerry. The glow of the screen reflected off her face and fried her night vision.

She pulled up the call history, felt for the trackball, then accidentally hit the Call button—crap, who’d I just dial? Probably someone on the task force. But it wasn’t. It was Robby’s cell. Right to voicemail. “It’s me. Need your help. In pursuit of Crush Killer. John Mayfield, a.k.a George Panda . . . foot pursuit along 29—” She glanced over her right shoulder, then coughed. “Leaving Fit1, somewhere near Peju, that place we went a few days ago with the yodeling wine guy—hurry!”

Mayfield was still visible, but he was a stride faster than she and the gap was widening. She struggled with her phone, pressed the Call button again and found what she thought was Brix’s number, coughed hard again, then dialed Brix.

“Ray Lugo.”

Lugo. That works. “Ray—Roxxann and I are in pursuit of John Mayfield. Need backup.” She gave him the location, told him to call Brix and the rest of the task force. He was thirty minutes out. The others were already en route, he said, but not a whole lot closer.

She pressed End with her thumb and shoved the phone into its holster. This fucker is not getting away. Even if I have to shoot him in the back, I’ll answer for it later. But he’s not going to crush anymore throats. I’ll take whatever heat they give me—

Except that she was getting winded—not surprising given the smoke she’d recently inhaled—and she was falling further behind. She thought about yelling for him to freeze, but who was she kidding? Would he stop? That didn’t even require an answer.

Over her left shoulder, she heard the clanging rumble of a large moving object approaching. She turned and saw the lone headlight of The Napa Valley Wine Train blazing its trail along the tracks. And in that instant, she realized what was going to happen. Mayfield was going to hop the train.

Vail angled left, toward the tracks, running through scrub, on uneven terrain, gravel and angled dirt—something she was specifically advised against doing for awhile, until the knee was completely healed. In a perfect world, she would do exactly as told. But with men like John Mayfield on the loose, this world was anything but perfect.

She angled closer to the train—and for the first time realized how massive it was. Traveling in a car, at a distance, as she had been with Dixon when she had first seen it, the restored railcars didn’t look so imposing.

But running alongside it, feeling the shudder of its tonnage as it passed over the iron tracks, was intimidating. In some ways more so than staring down a serial killer in lockup. Because there the offender was in shackles. But here, with the unbridled power of the locomotive bearing down on her, knowing she was going to have to jump onto this moving monster, she started to have doubts she would be able to carry through on her plans. And that didn’t happen often to Karen Vail.

The train rumbled by her, first the locomotive and then the dining cars. She fought the urge to shut her eyes, to tell her there wasn’t a train barreling down the track to her left. Step the wrong way and she’d be crushed. Or worse.

And up ahead, just as she had suspected, John Mayfield moving closer to the train. The bastard wasn’t going to make this easy. As she started to feel the burn of the cold night air in her lungs, Vail realized she had no choice. It was either that or shoot him. And while that was an option, it was not a good one. She had a chance to catch him—ethically. When she reached the point that plan was no longer viable, she would raise her Glock and fire. But not yet.

As she mused on that thought, John Mayfield reached out and grabbed the iron railing on the third car, jumped, and pulled himself aboard.

FIFTY-FIVE

There were some things about being a profiler Karen Vail did not enjoy. She had made a list once, then folded it and shredded it. She didn’t need to be reminded she was dealing with the extremes of human depravity.

But one thing that was not on the list was jumping onto a moving train.

The wine train did not travel at the same speeds as a traditional train—because, after all, its purpose was to leisurely troll the five cities it passed through en route to its turnaround point, to allow its passengers ample time to enjoy the lush countryside, mountains, and vineyards, while savoring a wine-paired, freshly prepared meal at the hands of a renowned, onboard chef.

That’s what she kept telling herself as she pumped her arms harder, catching up a bit to the last car, reaching up for the railing—lifting herself up—and getting thrown back against the train’s siding. She held on, whipped around and stretched her right arm onto the opposing handle while feeling for the wide metal steps she knew lay somewhere near her feet.

She lunged forward—and slammed her shin into the hard edge of the step above. But at least she was aboard. She had a feeling that would not be the hardest part of catching John Mayfield.

A sudden, spasmodic coughing fit wracked her body. She bent forward while straining to hold on, hacking away until her throat felt raw. A moment later, she was able to stand erect, the spasm passing. She risked taking a deep breath, squared her shoulders, then wiped her mouth on her sleeve.

Inward and onward. Mayfield’s inside.

Vail pushed through the door, then reached for her handgun—but it wasn’t there. Neither was her backup weapon, which had been burned in the fire. Her Glock was locked in Dixon’s vehicle, where she had left it when they went to work out. There were no fixed Bureau rules on where to leave your sidearm when you were not able to carry it with you—so long as it was secure. Leaving it in a gym locker did not qualify as “secure”—so she’d left it in the car.

Fuck. Given Mayfield’s size—and what he does to his victims—she would have to be extremely careful, unarmed and in the close quarters of a train. Not much room to maneuver, to duck and roll—or run. Not that she shied from a conflict—this was Karen Vail—but cooler heads had to prevail, and if the circumstances were not to your advantage, you changed those circumstances so they would help you achieve your goal.

Vail apparently did not have that luxury.

She looked around, then stepped into the rail car and pulled her credentials case. Held it up to soothe the minds of the passengers and to identify herself should a fight with Mayfield break out. At least they’d know who to root for.

As she moved forward, the creds raised to eye level, the passengers waved and gave her a thumbs up. Actually, they did neither. Most sat there, some squinting confusion. The presence of an FBI agent who no doubt wore a very serious expression did not spell good news for the rest of their expensive wine train journey.

None of them presented a threat, so Vail moved on. She walked through the car, headed toward the end of the train, searching the seats—below and behind—for the big man who, until recently, went by the moniker of “UNSUB.”

But Mayfield was no longer an “unknown subject.” They knew who he was. And, at the moment, they knew where he was.

Except that Mayfield was not in this car. Vail turned around and walked toward the front of the train, the slight side-to-side sway of the car throwing off her balance as she stepped toward the doorway. Into the next car, also one with large, plush, fixed rotating seats that faced the windowed sides. And above, a glass ceiling.

But this was not time to dream about the vacation that could have been, the one that John Mayfield had stolen from her and Robby. Now was the time to catch the bastard, make him pay for the people he had murdered.

So she moved forward, suddenly realizing that while she was making her way through the train, there’d be no way to know if Mayfield had jumped off the train. Fuck. I hadn’t thought of that. I hate it when I blow something. And I blew this. But what was I to do? No backup. It was just me and my two eyes.

Vail pulled her phone and moved to the nearest window. Normally, the patrons in the gold velour seats would’ve moved aside at the sight of her big, black handgun. People tended to do that, FBI badge or not. But those who were unaware of who she was merely threw dirty looks at this pushy woman who was bullying her way past them to grab a window view. C’mon, people, it’s dark out now. Not a whole lot to see out there.

While standing there, nose against the glass, hoping to see a large man dressed in gym clothing bathed in a car’s headlights, she phoned Dixon. Dixon answered quickly, as if she was expecting the call.

“Yeah—”

“I’m on the train. You see Mayfield?”

“Who the hell’s Mayfield?”

“Panda,” Vail said. “Panda’s other name—his real name, I think—is John Mayfield. He was onboard, but I lost sight of him and have no way of telling if he’s jumped off.”

“Haven’t seen him. I’m in the car, coming up alongside the train now.”

“Good. Keep pace with it. I’ll let you know if I find him.”

If I go flying through the glass, that would likely serve as your first clue.

Vail signed off, shoved her BlackBerry into its holster, then crossed into the next car. No windowed skylight in this one. But a well-restored and meticulously maintained interior nonetheless. Carpeted interior, paisley fabric seats . . . and curtains on the windows. I could enjoy this, she thought, if Robby were here and she wasn’t chasing a serial killer through the Napa countryside.

Focus, Karen. Catch the fucker.

She moved between cars, hearing the rhythmic clanking as the wheels struck the rail joints, thump-thumping as the train barreled down the track. Vail scanned the car she was in. People seemed to lean away when they caught a glimpse of her—she was no doubt looking pretty ragged . . . hungry, tired, stressed, and, oh, yeah, there was that gold badge she was holding out in front of her. She hoped people still respected authority.

Vail forged forward into the next car, where patrons were sitting at tables, gold velour curtains blanketing the mirrorlike windows, beyond which lay the Napa countryside—actually, probably now Rutherford, on its way toward St. Helena, if she remembered her map correctly. There was a hint of light out the left windows, to the west . . . a silhouetted vineyard flicking by.

Gone, blurring past her, signaling the metaphoric passage of time.

Then she had a feeling. John Mayfield was still on the train. Somehow, she just knew.

So she moved forward. Stopped to ask a man in his forties if he had seen a large man dressed in gym attire moving through the cars. Yes, he said, and he pointed “thataway.” Vail couldn’t help thinking she was in some inane children’s cartoon, asking “Which way did he go?”

But she continued on nonetheless. Because this wasn’t an ink and celluloid drama. It was an honest to goodness race to find a man who murders people. Innocent people.

She moved into the next car and saw the door ahead close suddenly. Was it possibly her offender? Impossible to say. She pulled her phone and called Dixon. “Anything?”

“If he came off the west side of the train, no. If he came off the east, I have no fucking clue.”

“I think I just saw him. Who’s en route?”

“Task force is lights and siren, but probably at least fifteen out. I just called St. Helena and Calistoga PDs.”

“Ten-four. Wish me luck.”

Vail signed off and hung up. For now, it was her ballgame. Hopefully she could stay in the game until the others arrived. And being on a train filled with people—who paid handsomely to be here—didn’t make her job any easier. If Mayfield wanted to make this a hostage situation, there’d be little she could do to stop, or defuse, it. So she kept moving forward.

As she climbed through the doors of the next car, she grabbed the waitress and asked a question she should’ve thought to ask earlier. “Just how many goddamn cars are on this train?”

The answer told her she was in the last one before the locomotive. Mayfield was either here—which he was not—or he was in the locomotive. Or he had bailed out. Vail looked west first and did not see anyone—but in the near darkness, there was no way she could be sure of what she was seeing. To her right, the east was totally black.

Yet she sensed Mayfield was still aboard the train.

Vail pushed forward into the connecting area between the car and the locomotive—and saw, to her right and now behind her as the train continued on, John Mayfield, standing in the middle of the road, car-jacking a vehicle.

So much for intuition—

She pulled her BlackBerry, but Dixon was already calling through.

“Got him—” Dixon said. “Two cars ahead. Silver SUV—”

“I see it.”

Dixon pulled right, around the car in front of her, along the shoulder of the winding road.

“I’m getting off,” Vail said. “Pick me up.”

She yanked open the side door, looked at the descending metal stairs, and stepped down. Damn. It’s not enough I had to jump onto the train, now I have to jump off it. If she didn’t hate Mayfield before, she sure hated him now.

Glanced right. Saw what looked like Dixon’s car.

Why haven’t I heard back from Robby? Where the hell is he?

Vail stepped down to the lowest rung, then sprung off the train and into the brush, rolling onto her shoulder as she landed. Cushioning scrub or not, the impact still stung.

She pushed herself up, saw Dixon’s head poking through the window, yelling at her.

“Hurry the hell up!”

Blaring horns. Vail ran onto the roadway and got into Dixon’s car.

Dixon floored it as soon as the door closed, throwing the seatbeltless Vail backwards and sideways. She grabbed for the door handle and righted herself. Pain shot through her left shoulder.

Dixon’s engine was revving, groaning as she kept the pedal against the floor.

“Don’t lose him,” Vail shouted. As if she had to tell Dixon to step on it. Dixon was driving along the rough hard-pack shoulder, which made for a less than comfortable ride. But neither of them cared, not with their quarry in the SUV ahead of them, speeding along this twisty-turny stretch of Highway 29 that was now out in the suburbs, vineyards on both sides illuminated by Dixon’s headlights.

Suddenly, a buzz on Dixon’s phone.

“Get it,” she yelled.

Vail reached over, grabbed Dixon’s cell, and flipped it open. “This is Vail.”

“It’s Brix. I’m en route, passing Pratt Avenue.”

Now there’s a street that rings a bell. “He’s at Pratt,” Vail said to Dixon. To Brix: “I don’t know where we are—”

“Sounds like he’s a couple miles back,” Dixon said. “Tell him we’re passing Ehlers.”

“We’re—”

“I heard,” Brix said. “I’ll be there soon.”

Vail ended the call, shoved the phone back into Dixon’s pocket—and that’s when she realized her partner was wearing the bare minimum: gym shorts and shirt, no bra, and tennis shoes without socks. But she had her sidearm strapped to her shoulder and her phone holder clipped to the shorts’ waistband. It looked bizarre—and downright geeky—but who the hell cared?

Vail caught a sign on the left—Bale Grist Mill State Park—and realized the area was becoming more rural as they drove down 29.

Dixon tightened her grip on the wheel. “He’s speeding up, I think he realizes we’re behind him.”

“Where’s your cube?”

“In here,” she said, banging her right elbow on the large armrest.

Dixon lifted her arm and Vail reached into the deep receptacle. She pulled out the device, flipped the switch, and the blinding light filled the interior and reflected off the windshield. It made them both recoil.

“Jesus—”

“Shit, sorry about that.” Vail rolled down the window and set the magnetic base on the roof.

“Two-way’s in the glove box. Tell dispatch we’ve got a code 33. Give our twenty.”

Vail located the radio, then saw something that brought a smile to her face: her Glock. Missed you, big fella.

She keyed the two-way and followed Dixon’s instructions. “ . . . Code 33, stolen silver Nissan SUV headed—”

“North.”

“North on Highway 29.” She lowered the radio. “Get us closer, let me grab the tag.”

Dixon pressed the accelerator, the engine roared louder and the vehicle closed on Mayfield’s SUV.

“Roger,” the dispatcher responded. “Code 33 on primary. All non-emergency traffic go to red channel.”

Vail leaned forward and squinted. “I see a five. X-ray, Tom, Robert—” Vail moved the radio back to her lips. “License on the stolen Nissan. California plate. Five X-ray Tom Robert.”

Mayfield swerved left to avoid a motorcyclist, who leaned right, onto the shoulder.

Dixon gave the man extra room and cut back into the lane. “I hate high-speed chases. Too fucking dangerous.”

The headlights caught a large sign up ahead and off to the right. Vail pointed. “What do you say we forget the chase and go see Old Faithful spew her wrath?”

Dixon veered right around a stray cat. Vail grabbed the dashboard with her left hand, then set the radio between her thighs when Dixon slammed on the brakes and yelled out—

“What the fuck!”

A cruiser, light bar flashing, was approaching from the opposite direction. Dixon’s car dovetailed, her rear end flying right while she coaxed the front end left, back into pursuit of Mayfield.

“Mayfield saw the cruiser, turned left,” Dixon said. “Right into the Castillo del Deseo.”

“The what?”

“Castle of Desire,” Dixon said. “A dozen years to build. Looks and feels like a real Spanish castle.” She accelerated up the inclined cement drive, the taillights of Mayfield’s SUV still barely visible around the bend. She sped past the seedling evergreens, then crested the hill. Ahead, in the darkness, was a large, dramatically lit brick structure.

Vail craned her neck to take in the enormity of the approaching complex. “Robby said he went to a castle a few days ago. Wish I could’ve seen it with him. Just a guess . . . but this won’t be nearly as fun.”

Dixon swung the vehicle in behind Mayfield’s parked Nissan. “Let’s go.”

“Where?”

Dixon nodded ahead, toward the castle. “You’re gonna get your wish.”

FIFTY-SIX

Weapons drawn, Vail and Dixon rushed out of their car and approached the Nissan from behind, beneath window level. The headlights from Dixon’s car lit them up like precious jewels against black velvet. They moved up alongside the SUV and pulled open the doors. The dome light was disabled, but there was enough brightness from Dixon’s headlights to check the interior.

“Clear,” Vail said.

“Clear,” Dixon repeated.

They looked out into the darkness.

Vail spotted him first. “There!” She threw out a hand to the left of the castle, at what appeared to be a grassy knoll with thick elder trees peppering the hillside. A large man was running alongside the massive building.

They took off in that direction, trying to keep an eye on Mayfield while watching for hidden ruts, low barriers or other structures that would lay them out face down on the ground.

Dixon pointed. “Over there, by the opening in the wall—”

They ran forward, across the grass and through the stand of thick-trunked trees. In the shadows of the dim lighting hanging from various points of the castle wall, the trees looked eerie, like witches ready to pull their roots from beneath the grass and start walking.

They pulled up against the high, rough hewn brick wall. Vail peered around the edge. “Clear.”

They fell in, through the opening, which was a back lot of the castle, with machinery and stainless steel white wine casks arranged against the far wall of the large square. To their left was another building constructed of the same materials and architecture. By the looks of it, it was a miniature castle all its own, perhaps a private residence for the winery’s owner.

Vail and Dixon moved into the square and squatted to get a better view of the area. There were only a few places where someone could be hiding. Mayfield didn’t have enough of a lead on them to sprint across the lot to the stainless steel casks. And he couldn’t have made it to the residence. But to their right, twenty feet away, was a service entrance into the castle.

Two heavy, ornate wood doors were swung fully open, inviting them in. As they approached cautiously, Dixon’s phone rang. Dixon mouthed “Brix” to Vail, who pressed forward.

Dixon remained where she was and answered the call. “We’re at the castle, around back,” Vail heard as she moved into the room. More stainless containers stood on thick metal stands, hoses coiled on the cement ground beneath them. Metal steps led up to a catwalk, where workers could presumably monitor the huge vats of Chardonnay and Sauvignon Blanc.

Vail knelt down and swept the area, then proceeded forward up a couple of steps . . . into the castle. Immediately to her left was an ornate plaza, with dim lanterns providing enough light to be romantic—and authentic—but far from useful when conducting a foot pursuit of a serial killer.

Clearly, that was not in the original designers’ plan when they sketched out the lighting requirements for the facility. Shame on them.

Vail heard a noise behind her—swung around hard—and saw Dixon.

She leaned in close toward Vail’s ear. “Brix and Agbayani are here. They’re coming in through the front. Cruisers are in the lot, making sure he doesn’t leave with his car.”

“I wish that was comforting, but there’s a lot of rural real estate out here. I’m not sure we caught a break when that cruiser forced him off the road.”

Dixon’s head was turned, taking in the area in front of them. “There’s an iron fence that surrounds the property, so if we don’t get him in the castle, it’s not likely he’ll be able to get away without going past one of our people.”

“Even armed, I’m not sure a one-on-one confrontation will be to our advantage.” Vail pointed with her Glock. “You go left. Into the plaza. I’ll go right.”

Dixon nodded and Vail headed down a stairwell that sported slightly improved lighting—but opened into what appeared to be a gift shop. A large armored knight exoskeleton stood guard to her right, against the wall. To her left was a series of catacombs, all illuminated with mood lighting. Filling the main space and directly ahead was a well-camouflaged sales counter and tasting area. Two women stood there, one pouring wine for a husband and wife and the other exchanging a charge slip with a customer.

Vail stepped forward, her pistol by her right thigh and her badge now clipped to her belt. She unfolded her credentials, held them up and played show-and-tell. “FBI. Have any of you seen a bodybuilder come through here dressed in gym clothes?”

The two women and the couple shook their heads. “Okay, leave what you’re doing and get out of here. Move to the parking lot and wait there. Don’t scream. Go quickly, but don’t panic. You hear me?”

Their eyes, wide with fear, registered their understanding and they moved off.

Vail continued on, through the gift shop, into tasting stations that were tucked into small rooms off the main hallway. She felt her anxiety bubbling up, the pressure in her chest, the sense that she had to get the hell out of here.

Claustrophobia sucks. And it’s goddamn inconvenient.

I don’t have time for this shit. She pressed on, following the tasting room into what was apparently a wine cave. The hallways were narrow, the ceiling was low, and the lighting was dim.

Hundreds of wine bottles were stacked horizontally against the wall, twelve rows high and several dozen wide. Up ahead, oak barrels rested on their sides along the walls, making the rooms seem even narrower. She turned down another bend and entered a similarly slender hallway. With only one bulb now every twenty or so feet, it was getting darker. And she was finding it more difficult to breathe.

This is ridiculous. Mayfield could be anywhere. He must’ve known this place. Maybe the cruiser didn’t force him down this road. Maybe he knew how many caves and corridors and hidden rooms there were down here.

How are we going to find him?

Vail kept wandering through the maze of passageways, the anxiety and dread now consuming her thoughts. No. Focus on Mayfield. On Mayfield. He could be anywhere. Stay focused—

Up ahead—a larger room. Time to breathe, regroup. Think things through.

She stepped into a vast brick-encased vault—filled with oak barrels. It was brighter in here, and the ceiling was higher. She continued in, eyes scanning every corner and the subrooms created by the stacks of barrels. It was not unlike the thousand square foot barrel room she had been in at Silver Ridge.

When they found Victoria Cameron. When this whole mess started. In a sense, she had come full circle.

She walked down the wide, main aisle, her head swinging from side to side, trying to ensure John Mayfield didn’t ambush or blindside her. A few feet more and then she stopped. Turned 360 degrees, then backed against the nearest wall. Crouched down and pulled her BlackBerry. She had minimal service—one bar—but hopefully it was enough.

She looked for messages. Nothing. Robby had still not replied. What was up with that? That was a pretty frantic message she left. He wouldn’t ignore it. He’d never ignored any message she left him. Ever.

With her Glock in her left hand, she thumb-typed Robby a quick text:

where r u. need help

Then she texted Dixon and Brix, Lugo and Agbayani:

in large room filled with oak barrels. past gift shop. somewhere in tunnels. no sign of mayfld. ur 20?

As she reholstered her BlackBerry, she heard the tone of a cell phone. It was more than nearby—it was damn near next to her. She rose from her crouch and started searching. Whose phone had rung? It wasn’t a prolonged ring, as if someone had called. It was more like a quick, repeated beep. Then nothing.

A text.

She had just sent a text. Shit, this is not good.

Vail tightened her grip on the Glock, then moved slowly forward. Looked left, into a smaller room—also lined with oak barrels—and saw a body. Lying supine. With a shiny, thick liquid beneath it.

Vail rotated her head, checking as best she could around the barrels. Finding nothing, she inched closer to the body, still keeping an eye on her immediate vicinity. She moved to the far wall and cleared that completely, then kept her back to it. Directly in front of her was the victim. Male, well-dressed.

She advanced, in a crouch, her eyes still scanning below the barrels for feet—or movement of any kind.

Looked back to the body. And then she saw the face. It was Eddie Agbayani. In this light, it was impossible to determine much about cause of death. She lay her index and middle finger across his neck to check for a pulse. Nothing. But she felt something that confirmed her suspicions.

Vail pulled her BlackBerry. Using the light given off by the LCD screen, she scanned Agbayani’s throat area. Palpated the cartilage. And concluded—to be confirmed later under more optimal conditions—that the detective was the latest victim of John Mayfield, of the Crush Killer.

His left wrist had been sliced, the blood moist around the wound. He was killed moments ago—which meant Mayfield was likely still nearby.

Agbayani’s boots were on his feet—but at this point, it didn’t matter. Mayfield didn’t need to leave his calling card. They would know who was responsible.

As she glanced back up—she’d taken her eyes off the room too long—a text came through. Brix:

covered east upper level and turrets. zip.

Then Dixon:

courtyard and surrounding rooms, banquet room clear. on second floor. no way of knowing if he’s still here

Vail replied to all:

still here big room. found a db. still warm.

She sent it without saying it was Agbayani—the revelation would no doubt upset Dixon—but then realized she had no choice. They needed to know one of their boots on the ground was now, literally, on the ground.

She took a deep breath, looked over at Agbayani, and typed a new message:

sorry, rox. vic is eddie

Tears filled her eyes. She knew Dixon would take it hard. And though she didn’t know him well, he seemed to be a good guy.

If Vail were to follow standard crime scene procedure, as was her duty, she needed to secure the area and remain with the body. But that was a low priority. Her greater duty was to find the killer. Besides, they knew who did the murder. And Agbayani was dead. No sense in remaining. No one was going to walk up to a dead body.

Vail rose and moved back into the larger room. That’s where she stood while she figured out what to do, where to go.

That’s where she stood when the lights went out.

FIFTY-SEVEN

Dixon was on the second level, her neck aching and swollen from Mayfield’s attack in the steam room.

The adrenaline had masked the pain, but now, as time passed and the inflammation increased, she could no longer shrug it off. Her throat was narrowed and she was having difficulty swallowing and breathing.

And her neck’s range of motion was diminished. She had to twist her torso—which was also sore—because the cervical muscles were bruised and in spasm.

Dixon left the room she had just cleared and moved back into the corridor when her phone vibrated. She pulled it from her belt. A text from Vail:

in some kind of large room filled with oak barrels. past gift shop. somewhere in tunnels. no sign of mayfld. ur 20?

Dixon shifted her weapon to her left hand and texted back.

courtyard and surrounding rooms, banquet room clear. on second floor. no way of knowing if he’s still here

Flipped the phone closed, proceeded carefully. One run-in with John Mayfield was enough. She felt fortunate to have escaped; trying to pull off a second miracle in the same night might be asking too much of her Creator. Another buzz. Pulled her cell, flipped it open. Text from Vail:

still here big room. found a db. still warm.

Goddamn it. She took a deep breath. They had to find this monster. Fast. Phone in hand, Dixon steadied her weapon with both hands and moved forward a few feet, toward a doorway that led to a balcony overlooking the square below. Black iron lights hung at various intervals from the brick walls, under alcoves and from rusted brackets, throwing romantic—but minimal—light on the courtyard.

Her phone buzzed again. She twisted her right wrist and read the display.

sorry, rox. vic is eddie

Dixon stood there staring at the message. What? How can that be? Read it again: vic is Eddie. Eddie?

She started walking, unsure where she was headed, moving toward a staircase that would take her down. Dixon wasn’t paying attention to where she was going or what was in front of her. She kept moving, through corridors, across the square, down a staircase. Someone bumped her. Brix. She looked at him.

“Roxxi, I’m so sorry—”

She blinked away tears. Looked off ahead of her. “Where. Where is he?”

Brix took her by the arm and led her around the gift shop, through tunnels and small rooms lined with barrels and wine bottles. He pulled his Maglite and turned it on, twisted the beam to a wide spread.

Eddie. Dead?

I’ll kill that bastard. I’ll break every bone in his body—

“Roxxi, calm down,” Brix said in a low voice. “Relax.”

He must’ve felt me tensing. “I’m gonna kill him, Redd—”

“Shh,” he said, placing a hand over her mouth. “Hold that thought,” he whispered. “Let’s catch him first.”

They were moving down a long, narrow corridor when suddenly the lights went out. They both stopped. Brought their handguns up, adrenaline flooding their system.

Ready for a fight.

FIFTY-EIGHT

Vail backed up against the nearest wall and crouched down low, into as small a target as possible. Unless

Mayfield had night vision goggles, she would be nearly impossible for him to find. But she could not rule out him having NVGs—because, thus far, he seemed to be prepared. And because his ending up at the castle might’ve been by design.

But it couldn’t be. He did not have NVGs. He was as much in the dark as she was.

Then why would he cut the lights?

Unless he knew where I was when he took them out. Move—I have to move. Vail clambered to her left, attempting to be quiet, but the scrape of her shoes against the cement flooring, the fine gravel and detritus from the people who’d walked through here today made stealth difficult. But that worked both ways.

She continued left, bumped into a wall—brought up her right hand and felt around—barrels. Took a step forward to move around them—and stopped. Someone was coming. Noise in the distance.

Vail rose, backed up behind the barrels and brought her Glock in close to her body, holding it low, so it couldn’t be easily knocked from her hands.

Waited. Footsteps.

BRIX HELD HIS SIG-SAUER out in front of him, the Maglite alongside the barrel, illuminating the area in front of him. In such narrow quarters, Dixon had to follow single file behind him. She was a good five feet back, giving adequate spacing.

Up ahead, she saw the mouth to another, larger room. Brix stopped. Dixon stopped.

VAIL LISTENED. Moved forward slightly, peeked around the edge of the barrel. Saw the flicker of a light. Then it went out.

Her heartbeat accelerated. She felt it pounding, an aching in her head, a pulsing in her ears. She backed up a step away from the edge and listened.

“WHAT?” DIXON WHISPERED.

Brix shut his light. “A room up ahead.”

“Could be the one Karen’s in.”

“If so, Mayfield could be in there, too.”

“Split up?”

Brix nodded, leaned in close to her ear. “I’ll take the light. If he goes after someone, it’ll be me because he’ll know where I am.”

Dixon gave a thumbs up. Brix lit up his Maglite and pressed forward. The room ahead appeared to be large, with curvilinear brick ceilings, like multiple gazebos launching from thick square columns.

As Brix disappeared into the room, Dixon started ahead herself, wanting to shout into the dark, “Karen, you in here?” But she knew that was the absolute wrong thing to do. She didn’t even dare open her phone in the darkness, as that would surely give away her position.

But just as she’d gone about fifteen paces into the large room, she saw Brix’s flashlight go flying from his hand. He let out a sickening thump and, in the twirling and carnival-like swirl of his light as it spun on the ground, he appeared to drop to the floor with an even louder thud.

Dixon started to rush forward, then stopped. Mayfield was here. She had to get to him before he killed Brix—if he hadn’t already. She had to risk it. “Karen!”

VAIL SAW THE LIGHT advancing into the room, footsteps approaching. She backed up further, Glock out in front of her, taking an angle on the imminent arrival of her guest. The light was moving, bouncing the way it would with someone’s gait. Or if it were held out in front of you against your gun.

But she didn’t dare call out.

A noise—skin on bone—and the light went flying to the ground. A bump. Something hit the cement. A body?

“Karen!”

Vail looked out into the near darkness. Dixon. “Over here!”

And then she saw something dark spring toward her, a mass like a football player plowing into her, a crushing blow that knocked her back into a wall of barrels. Her air left her lungs.

And the Glock flew from her hands.

FIFTY-NINE

In the distant light that was off somewhere in the background, Vail saw John Mayfield in silhouette, his massive hand over her mouth. He had her shoved against the barrels. And she knew what was coming.

Vail swung, struck his meaty shoulder, then

kicked him in his groin—hit something hard,

kneed him again, and

again,

writhing her head from side to side, trying to open her mouth to bite—

reached up and grabbed for his face, got hold of his nose but

he yanked his head back and

she threw her left hand up in time to block a massive thrust into her

neck.

It struck her hand and forced it against her throat and she coughed.

Spasmodic. Coughing—

And then she heard a nauseatingly sick bone-breaking crunch.

“OVER HERE!”

Dixon tried to locate Vail’s voice—but in the chamber, with its uneven and gazebo-rounded ceilings, she couldn’t triangulate on her position. She moved quickly into the large room, using whatever light was being given off by the fallen Maglite, hoping she wouldn’t run into Mayfield. Because right now, she was sure he was here. That’s what had taken down Brix.

She saw barrels to her left and moved toward them, her right hand aiming her SIG and her left feeling the metal rims surrounding the flat oak faces, forward, forward, a few feet at a time.

And then scuffling, struggling, muted yells—off to her right. Karen!

Dixon ran in the direction of the noise. Around the bend, she saw, in the relative darkness, John Mayfield, legs spread, straddling something. She couldn’t see Vail, but Mayfield was easily twice her width.

Given Mayfield’s well-documented MO—which she’d experienced firsthand—she didn’t have to see Vail to know where she was, or what Mayfield was doing to her.

There wasn’t a good angle to take him out with a clean shot—especially in the poor lighting, she couldn’t be sure what she would hit. And a man like this wouldn’t respond to her plea for him to put his hands above his head. Based on what Vail had told her about narcissists, “surrender” is not in their ego-driven vocabulary.

So with Agbayani’s demise in the forefront of her thoughts, Dixon went for the more personal approach. She came up beside him, lifted her right leg, and brought her foot down, with all the force she could muster, against the side of Mayfield’s locked left knee, driving it to the right.

He recoiled in pain, the bone-crushing blow tearing ligament, cartilage—and probably fracturing his tibia and fibula.

As Mayfield’s knee buckled, he yelled out in pain, crumpled backwards. Dixon grabbed his thick wrist and brought her right forearm across her body and forward, through Mayfield’s elbow joint. It hyper-extended and snapped. She yanked down on his fractured arm, then backhanded him across the face with her SIG-fisted hand.

Mayfield, dazed by the blow, stumbled awkwardly on his broken leg, then collapsed and hit the ground hard.

Dixon stepped forward and brought her leg back like a place kicker and planted it in his jaw. It was a cheap shot, she knew, because the man was already unconscious.

Then she brought up her SIG and aimed.

SIXTY

After hearing the first crunch, Vail felt Mayfield release his grip on her mouth. She saw and heard movement—and Mayfield was suddenly yanked to the side, followed by another bone-snapping sound. A blow to the face. And then he was stumbling backward.

Standing there was Dixon. She stepped forward and kicked him. Just to make sure the Crush Killer would not be doing any more damage.

Vail rushed over to the fallen flashlight and picked it up. And that’s when she saw Dixon aiming her pistol at Mayfield’s head.

“Roxxann!”

Dixon, her blonde hair matted and mussed and half-covering her face, brushed it aside. Her chest was heaving, her left hand still balled into a fist.

Vail stepped forward. “It’s okay, Roxx. It’s okay.” She brought Dixon against her body, gave her a hug and a reassuring squeeze, and felt her tense body relax.

But Dixon suddenly pushed back. “Brix—” She scrambled to her left. “Light!”

Vail swung the Maglite around and, twenty-five feet away, found Brix on the floor, facedown and alongside a stack of barrels. Vail knelt down and pressed her fingers against his neck. “Strong pulse. Call it in.”

As Dixon opened her phone, Vail reached for her handcuffs. But they weren’t there. Of all the things she’d replaced, she had forgotten to get a new set. She went back to Brix, felt around his belt and found his cuffs, then brought them over to the unconscious Mayfield and clamped them down, extra tight. When he awoke, there was no way he was getting out of those. Especially with a fractured arm.

Vail pulled her BlackBerry and checked for messages from Robby. Nothing. “Call Ray and the others,” she said to Dixon. “Let ’em know we have the suspect in custody and he needs transport to county.” She looked over at Mayfield, who was stirring, regaining consciousness. “He’ll need medical attention on arrival.”

AS DIXON POCKETED HER CELL, Brix slowly sat up. Dixon extended her arm, locked hands with Brix, and pulled him up. He swayed a bit, then steadied himself against the barrels and looked over at Mayfield. “Bastard clocked me from behind.”

“You okay?” Dixon asked.

He stretched his neck and rolled his shoulders back. “I’m fine.”

“You missed all the fun,” Vail said. She brought a hand to her throat and rubbed it.

“Where’s Eddie?” Dixon asked.

Vail locked eyes with Brix. He frowned, then said, “Take her. I’ll stay and keep watch over the douche bag.”

Vail led Dixon to the next room, created by walls of barrels, and stood there while Dixon approached the body. She knelt down, her back to Vail, started to place a hand on his chest—and stopped. No doubt, her “cop instincts” trumped her emotions and she knew not to contaminate the crime scene. But did it really matter?

“It’s okay, Roxx,” Vail said. “You can touch him. Pay your respects.”

She reached out again, placed the back of her hand against his cheek, then his forehead. Gently closed his eyes. Said something to him, and her back heaved in sorrow.

Vail remained where she was, giving her friend some space.

A moment later, Dixon stood up and, wiping away tears, squared her shoulders, brought up a hand and moved her hair off her face.

“Let’s go,” she said, walking past Vail.

SIXTY-ONE

Brix called one of the officers who was watching the castle’s periphery and had him secure Eddie Agbayani’s crime scene. The paramedics, clad in light gray tops, darker pants and ball caps, transported Mayfield, under heavy guard, to the Napa Valley Medical Center ER, not far from the Napa Police Department. Brix refused treatment, saying he was “Just fine now, thank you very much.”

Vail chucked it off to male ego, embarrassment to having been taken out, but then she realized she’d probably behave the same way. She chided herself for looking for male-female gender issues in every situation. It was something she would have to work on, because she knew, invariably, it would sneak into her thoughts, despite her best efforts to keep those attitudes in check.

On the way to the hospital, Dixon and Vail stopped at the Heartland bed-and-breakfast in Yountville. Robby was not there. Nor was his car. In fact, he had not been there the entire day—other than the maid service straightening the bed and cleaning the bathroom, the room was as she had left it when she locked up this morning.

“I take it it’s not like Robby to ignore your calls,” Dixon said.

Vail stood at the foot of the bed, hands on her hips. “No, it’s not.” She turned and faced the new suitcases Robby had purchased at the outlets a couple of days ago. Flipped his open, moved aside his dirty underwear and socks. Hit something hard and flat. Dug it out and held it up.

Dixon joined Vail at her side. “His cell phone?”

Vail did not reply. She flicked it open. It was powered off. She turned it on, waiting for it to boot and then find service. When it had finished, she scrolled to the incoming log. All the messages she had left him stared back at her.

She turned to Dixon. “The only messages in his log are from me. No one else called him?”

“Did he get other calls while you were with him—at any time during your trip?”

Vail thought. “No.” She thumbed the mouse button. “But at some point he would’ve received a call, and there’s nothing. Nothing here before today.”

“Maybe he deletes his logs regularly. I have a friend who does that. What about outgoing calls?”

Vail played her thumb across the buttons again. “Nothing there either. That’s not right.” She held up the phone. “There’s nothing.”

“Either he regularly deletes his logs, or—”

“Or someone deleted them for him.” Vail stood there staring at the phone, as if doing so would magically restore the log entries. “I can send the phone to the Bureau lab, see if they can grab data off the chip. There’s gotta be a computer chip inside, right?”

Dixon shrugged. “I would think so. But would the Bureau lab do that? It’s not a federal case. I mean, it’s not a case at all, not yet.”

“His friend,” Vail said. “Robby’s friend. Maybe he knows where he is.” Vail scrolled to the phone book. “What the hell was the guy’s name?” She watched the list roll by. “Sebastian, I think.”

“Is he there?”

“No.” Without another word, Vail carefully closed the phone and slipped it into her pocket.

“We can’t explain the log,” Dixon said. “So let’s approach this another way. If Robby left the phone here, he wasn’t planning on being gone long. Does he run?”

“Yeah.” She looked around, found a pair of new dress shoes. No sneakers. “Okay, maybe he drove somewhere and went for a run and left his cell. Or he just forgot it.”

“Sure. He’s on vacation, you’re swamped with a case. He’s on his own. Makes sense.”

“So why didn’t he come back?”

Dixon surveyed the room. “Too bad the maid cleaned the room.”

Vail nodded. She knew what Dixon was getting at: If there had been a struggle, a cop would immediately recognize the telltale signs, but to a cleaner it might look like a messy room . . . or the aftermath of a rough morning of sex. Regardless, what it looked like then—along with whatever clues there might have been—was now lost as far as the information it might have yielded.

“I’ll try to locate the owners, see if we can question the maid. For what it’s worth. Who knows, if it was obvious, things knocked over, she may remember.”

“Fine, do it.” Vail got down on all fours and examined the carpet, looking for trace blood. After making a circuit of the room and finding nothing suspicious, she moved into the bathroom to examine the sink and shower drains.

Dixon hung up and joined Vail in the bathroom. “She’s going to have the maid call me.” She crouched beside Vail. “I’m gonna call Matt Aaron, get a CSI in here to find what he can. If there’s latent blood or prints, he’ll find it. Other than maybe vacuuming, making the bed and running a sponge over the countertops, I don’t think the cleaners do a whole lot till you check out.” She tapped Vail on her knee. “C’mon. Let’s get out of here before we contaminate the scene more than we already have.”

Vail followed Dixon out of the room—took one last look back—then pulled the door closed.

SIXTY-TWO

Outside, Dixon called Brix and asked him to have someone at the Sheriff’s Department issue a BOLO for Robby’s car. They weren’t sure of the license plate, so Vail gave him the name of the rental company and their arrival date. A deputy would chase down the registration. Brix, being briefed on what was going down, also issued a countywide alert to law enforcement officers, across all local jurisdictions, that Detective Robby Hernandez was to be considered missing. It was far short of the time frame whereby they would normally issue such an order, but Brix said he had no problem bending the rules for another cop, especially one he’d come to like.

Before leaving the bed-and-breakfast, Vail and Dixon knocked on the doors of the other rooms, mindful that some of the guests might still be out on the town, at a late supper. Napa largely shut down in the evening, apart from the restaurant scene, and people often ate leisurely dinners that lasted longer than usual.

Vail and Dixon spoke with couples in four of the eight other rooms. No one was around during the time frame Vail estimated Robby might have left the room. No one saw or heard anything unusual. In short, no one had anything of value to offer.

They left Dixon’s card stuck in the doors of the rooms that did not answer their knock, with a note to call as soon as they returned. With that, they got back in the car and headed for the emergency room.

THEY ARRIVED at the Napa Valley Medical Center and entered the emergency room through the ambulance bay. As they passed the nurses’ station, where a woman was talking quickly into a corded red phone, Vail heard the beeps of heart monitors, medical orders and countertalk between doctors and nurses, and the firing of a portable x-ray unit. The composite sounds reminded her of Jonathan’s recent stay at Fairfax Hospital. They weren’t fond memories.

A gurney wheeled by in front of them, causing them to pull up and wait while the staff descended on the patient.

It didn’t take long to find the area where John Mayfield was being treated. Gray and blue curtains were drawn, but three Napa County deputy sheriffs, dressed in black jackets and pants, stood a few feet back from the foot of the gurney. Vail and Dixon badged the three men, then stepped around the curtain. Another two deputies were inside, beside the doctor and nurse, who were dressed in powder blue scrubs. A portable x-ray tube stood off to the side. A stocky physician, presumably the radiologist, was holding up an x-ray to the fluorescent lighting.

“I’ll give this a better read on the lightbox, but it’s pretty clear.” He pointed with an index finger; his colleague, a slender physician, looked on. “See? Here, and here.”

“Set it and release,” the thin doctor said.

The radiologist lowered the film. “That’ll do it.” He looked down at his patient. “Someone did a number on your elbow and knee, Mr. Mayfield.”

“That someone is me,” Dixon said. She stood there, thumbs hooked through her belt loops. Daring anyone to comment.

Everyone in the room turned to face her. No one spoke.

The doctor turned back to his patient. “We’ll get you stabilized, but you’re going to need an orthopedic consult. My best guess is surgery will be required to reduce that tib-fib fracture and repair the torn ligaments, but that’ll have to wait till the swelling’s down. It’s possible, even with surgery, that you’ll have some reduced mobility.”

“Get the violins,” Vail said.

All heads once again turned in their direction.

“I gotta listen to this bullshit?” Mayfield asked.

“Excuse me,” the radiologist said. “You mind waiting out—”

“No,” Vail said, “excuse us. Your patient is a serial killer who’s brutally murdered several innocent people. Still concerned about the reduced mobility of his left arm?”

The doctor pulled his eyes from Vail, took a noticeable step back from Mayfield, and glanced at his colleague. “Well, as I said, I’m going to give these a closer look on the . . . on the lightbox.” He turned and pushed past the nurse and deputies and left the curtained room.

“Shall I call Dr. Feliciano?” the nurse asked.

The remaining physician took a step back himself. His eyes found the handcuffs that were fastened to the gurney. “Yes . . . Dr. Feliciano. Let’s get Mr. Mayfield casted and on his feet. So to speak.”

TWO HOURS LATER, Dr. Feliciano had finished casting both limbs—without incident, and, at his patient’s insistence, without pain killers. Shortly thereafter, Mayfield received an expedited release and was cleared for transport to the Napa jail.

Earlier, while Mayfield was being attended to by Dr. Feliciano, Dixon fielded calls from the maid for the Heartland bed-and-breakfast. She did not recall anything unusually out of place in Vail’s room, but she couldn’t be sure because she cleans four different B&Bs per day, and they all tended to run together. There was one that was in significant disarray, but she thought it was down the road from Heartland. Dixon tried to get her to commit, but the woman could not swear the tossed room was Vail’s.

Dixon also took three calls from other guests at the bed-and-breakfast. No one recalled anything out of the ordinary.

Vail checked with the hospital nurses to make sure a man matching Robby’s description hadn’t been brought in for emergency treatment. He had not been. They called over to Queen of the Valley Medical Center and Santa Rosa Memorial Hospital, Level II trauma centers, which is where Robby would’ve been airlifted had there been a major accident. They, too, had not treated or admitted anyone resembling Robby. The nighttime administrator made a call, herself, to other area hospitals that might have received him. But she came up empty.

As Vail and Dixon drove to the Napa County Department of Corrections, Vail was quiet, replaying in her mind the last conversations she’d had with Robby. Nothing stood out. She’d been preoccupied with the Crush Killer case. He had been entertaining himself, going here and there . . . and she’d been too busy to really listen to what he was saying in terms of what he’d seen and where he had been. Other than visiting the castle, she couldn’t even remember if he’d told her anything about specific places he had visited.

Dixon must have sensed her mental somersaulting, because she reached over and nudged Vail in the shoulder.

“Hey.”

Vail pulled her numbed gaze from the window and turned to face Dixon.

“I’m sure he’s fine. Maybe he just had something to deal with. You said he knew some people out here, right? Maybe he went over there to help them.”

Vail pulled her BlackBerry and called Bledsoe.

“Karen,” Bledsoe said with a hoarse grogginess. “If you’re gonna be in California much longer, you’ve really gotta get the hang of that three-hour time difference. It’s almost . . . 2 a.m.”

“Sorry.”

“What’s wrong?” His voice was suddenly strong, his mind wide awake. He knew her pretty well.

“I . . .” She sighed deeply, trying to find the energy to form the words. “I can’t find Robby.”

“What do you mean, you can’t find him?”

“He’s disappeared. Gone.”

“Hernandez is a big boy, Karen. I’m sure he’s somewhere.”

“No. I’ve been trying to reach him all day. I found his phone in our room, turned off. The logs were wiped clean. No apparent sign of a struggle, but we’re not sure. His car’s gone. I take it you haven’t heard from him.”

“Not since the thing with Jonathan. How’s it going with that killer?”

“We got him. Tonight.”

“Congrats, Karen. Give yourself a pat on the ass.”

“I’ll let Robby do that. As soon as I find him.”

“You check air, car rentals—”

“Air. No, I totally spaced—”

“Look, I’ll take care of it. Flights, car rentals, I’ll check it all. I’ve got all his info in the file, down at the office, from Dead Eyes. I’ll go down there right now. I’ll call you if I find something.”

She wished Bledsoe was there, by her side. Right now, she needed something close to home. For some reason, talking to him felt better. “Call me even if you don’t find anything.”

She hung up, let her head rest back on the seat. They had arrived at the Department of Corrections’ Hall of Justice complex on Third Street.

“You wanna come in, or wait here?”

Vail sat up and rubbed her face. “I should be nearby when Mayfield’s questioned.” Her voice was tired. Truth was, she was exhausted, mentally and physically. And whatever remaining energy she did have was focused on Robby, not on John Mayfield. “I should probably be the one in the room with him. Narcissists need to be handled differently than most suspects.”

“Assuming Owens goes for it.” Dixon was staring at her. “Are you in any condition to go face-to-face with Mayfield?”

Vail popped open her door and got out. That was her answer.

They stowed their guns in the lockers, then met Brix, Lugo, Gordon, and Mann at the long, window-enclosed booking office. Timothy Nance was there as well. He did not look pleased. Vail had the fleeting thought of wondering why he was still around, but decided her waning energies were better spent on more important matters than scum like Nance.

Lugo looked particularly worn. His face was taut and his gaze was focused on the ground.

Normally, the arresting officers discharged their duties and returned to patrol once their prisoner was brought into the jail and turned over to prison personnel for processing. But in this case, the task force members were not about to let anyone handle John Mayfield. He was their collar, and they intended to see this through to the end.

Austin Mann stepped over to Dixon and Vail, then nodded at Mayfield, who stood off to the side in prison blues, getting his fingerprints digitally scanned. “Property and medical intake’s been done. And the nurse already came down to clear him.”

Vail folded her arms across her chest. “He just came from the hospital. The docs released him. What’d they need the nurse for?”

“Liability,” Brix said, joining the huddle. “CYA, that’s all. But because of his injuries, they’re gonna house him separately, outside the general pop. In case someone were to attack him, he couldn’t defend himself.”

“That’d be a damn shame,” Vail said.

“Wouldn’t it,” Mann said with a chuckle. He glanced over at Mayfield, who obviously heard his comment, then turned his body slightly, away from the arrestee. In a lower voice, Mann said, “Watch Commander’s cleared us to interview him in the Blue Room.”

“Yeah,” Brix said. “About that.” He touched Vail on the elbow. “Can I have a word with you?”

As he moved her aside, out of earshot of the others, Mayfield was escorted down the hall and through Door 154, which separated the booking area from the prison.

“When I saw him, I felt like I’d seen the guy before, but I couldn’t place where. Then it all made sense. Asshole is a pest control and mosquito abatement technician. He used to spray around the department when we’d get ants in the winter, after the rains. I think I even spoke to him once or twice.”

“Here’s one better. Yesterday, Roxxann and I worked out with the guy.” Vail didn’t say anything about Dixon’s considering a date with the man. “I saw the guy, Brix. I looked the monster in his eyes and I didn’t know. I’m supposed to be able to recognize evil. If I’d only—”

He held up a hand. “Don’t. We’re not perfect, Karen. We’re just cops. We do the best we can with what we’ve got. Yeah?”

She sighed deeply. “Yeah.”

Brix leaned in close. “Listen . . . the sheriff wants you to take the lead on Mayfield’s interview.”

“The sheriff?” After what had happened with Fuller, Vail figured she’d be the last one on his list to reward with the prized interview. The detective who nailed the killer was the one who usually did the interview. In this case, Vail figured that’d be Dixon.

“The sheriff. He says you’re the best man for the job. No offense.”

Vail tried to smile. “No offense taken.”

“Last thing. Are you okay with being alone in the room with him?”

Vail sucked on her bottom lip, glanced over at her fellow task force members. They were all looking at her, including Dixon. “No big deal. Let’s do it.”

SIXTY-THREE

The task force members settled into the video monitoring room down the hall from the Blue Room. It contained a faux wood media cabinet outfitted with a Sony television, videotape recording facilities, and several chairs.

“You’ll need this,” Brix said, handing her a file. “Oh—the prick insists his real name’s John Wayne Mayfield. We did a quick records search. Looks like he added the middle name himself.”

Vail snorted. “Yeah, that definitely fits.”

“Karen,” Brix said. “Good luck.”

The rest of the task force members nodded their agreement. Dixon dipped her chin.

Vail closed the door and walked across the hall into the Blue Room, where John Mayfield sat behind a round table. She carried the manila folder against her chest; she entered and set the file down on the table and looked at the arrestee.

Mayfield’s left arm was casted from the thumb to a point above the elbow. An equally large plaster cocoon immobilized his left leg. As a result, only his right arm was handcuffed to the belly chain that was wrapped around his waist. The other cuff, which normally would’ve been on his left wrist, was instead secured to the metal armrest of his chair. His left arm and both legs were free.

Knowing firsthand what this man was capable of, Vail couldn’t help but wonder: Is he effectively restrained?

But she couldn’t worry about it. She had a job to do and she sure as hell wasn’t going to back down now, in front of the men on the task force. Besides, in the mood she was in, she thought she could kill him if he got loose and came at her.

She flipped open the file. “Says here you claim your name is John Wayne Mayfield. That a joke?”

Mayfield squinted. “The only joke in this room is you.”

Vail pouted her lips and nodded slowly. “Okay, John, I hear you.” She made an exaggerated motion with her neck of examining the room. It was immediately clear why this was called the Blue Room. The cement walls and floor were covered with a tight, thin blue carpet, which had a peculiar sound absorbing effect.

Vail sat in the brown chair to the left of the table. Mayfield was across from her. Behind and above Vail’s head was a small camera lens, embedded in a wall-mounted, cream-colored apparatus that resembled a smoke alarm. It was beaming real-time video to the task force members in the video monitoring room.

“I hope you like your new home. I guess if you’ve gotta do time, might as well be in Napa. Then again, who knows where you’ll end up after you’re convicted. Probably someplace nowhere near as nice.”

“What I’ve done is take advantage of an opportunity. And I’m just getting even for what was done to me, sweetie. I’m balancing the scales of justice, is all.”

“Is that right? So in killing these people, you’ve done a good thing.”

Mayfield shifted in his seat, threw out his chest. “Damn straight.”

“How did killing make you feel?” Vail didn’t really need an admission—the charges against him, assault of a federal agent, attempted murder, let alone the murder of a law enforcement officer—Eddie Agbayani—would put Mayfield away for a long, long time. But any opportunity to get inside the mind of a killer was too important to ignore.

“How’d it make me feel?” Mayfield glanced around the walls, then shrugged. “Depends on who it was.”

“Victoria Cameron.”

Mayfield pursed his lips, thinking. “I didn’t feel a whole lot with that one.”

That one. The objectification, the treating of people as objects, was classic among narcissists. It wasn’t much different from the attitude of powerful leaders—political, corporate, military, it didn’t matter—though most of them weren’t killers.

“What about Ursula Robbins, Isaac Jenkins, Mary—”

“Special cases. And special cases deserve special attention because of who they are. Or were.”

“I’m not following you.”

Mayfield’s mouth rose into a grin. “Of course you aren’t.”

“Was Scott Fuller a ‘special case,’ too?”

“You know, you people should be thanking me. I helped these people.” He tugged on his chain. “And this is the thanks I get?”

Vail knew that narcissists felt they helped their victims by improving them, removing imperfections, and cleansing them of the evil they committed during their lives. Truth was, they were really cleansing their own souls.

“You’ll forgive me if we’re not more demonstrative in our gratitude.” Before Mayfield could respond, Vail forged ahead. “I don’t think you killed to help them, John. I think you killed for a different reason. I think you have some issues with women in your life. You’re angry at them. More than anger. Rage. And killing them allows you to exert control over something in your life you didn’t have control over. You gain control by dominating them, then degrading them by cutting off their breasts.”

Mayfield smiled and looked at her a long minute before answering. “You think you’ve got it all figured out, don’t you, Special Agent Vail? Well, I checked you out, too. And I know all about your son, whose name is very similar to mine. Isn’t that something? Maybe your son and me, we’re more alike than you know. We both had mothers who weren’t around. Because I’m sure you’re busy with your career, and looky here. You’re on the other side of the fucking country, trying to catch people like me when you should be at home taking care of your boy.”

Vail clenched her jaw. She couldn’t let Mayfield see what she was feeling. Truth was, she wanted to jump out of her chair and put her hands around his neck. She forced a smile instead.

“I had you there for a while, Vail, I know I did. You thought I was in Virginia, at Jonathan’s middle school. Bet you called your buddies, had them go apeshit protecting your precious little son. Looking for a phantom killer who wasn’t even there.”

Vail nodded. “That’s right, that’s exactly what I did. Because I’m not like your mother, John.” She noted his facial twitch. She leaned back and opened the file. “So you’re a mosquito abatement technician for the county of Napa. Pretty clever. You had access to all sorts of places without suspicion.”

He placed his left arm on the table. Vail watched but fought the urge to flinch. He smiled back at her. “I’ve been killing more than just mosquitoes.”

Vail nodded thoughtfully. “Indeed, you have. How many people have you killed?”

“Look it up. I sent you that list.”

“Yes, you did. Thanks for that. It was more important than you’ll ever know. But I know there are other names that aren’t on the list. Because narcissists like yourself lie. They lie all the time.”

“Oh, poor Agent Vail,” Mayfield sang. The smile evaporated from his face. He leaned forward, a sneer crumpling his mouth. “You think you got it all figured out. Well, fuck you. You ain’t got shit. There’s more to this than you know.”

Vail was usually able to let the slime of a serial killer slide off her as if she were made of Teflon. But John Wayne Mayfield, or George Panda, or whatever he wanted to be called, sent the creeps crawling up her spine. She couldn’t let him know, or even sense it.

She countered her repulsion by leaning forward, closer to him than was advisable. He could easily head butt her into oblivion. And given her fatigue, she wouldn’t be able to react fast enough to lessen its impact. A guy like Mayfield had nothing to lose. Doing more damage, adding another count of assault on a federal officer, was meaningless.

Mayfield shook his head, a tsk-tsk-tsk, shame-on-you movement. “You’ve missed the point, Karen. But you’ll probably get it eventually. And when you do, I think it’s probably safe to say this will have been unlike anything you or your profiler friends have ever seen before.”

Vail checked that off to a narcissist’s need to show he was better than everyone else. Superior. Special. Fine, I’ll give that to you if it makes you answer me. “Obviously,” Vail said, “you’re a superior killer to any we’ve dealt with in the past. So why don’t you tell me what I’m missing?” She shrugged. “I’m just a fuckup. Humor me. What don’t I know?”

Mayfield leaned back—the restraints offered no resistance. “Ask nicely. I want to hear you beg.”

“I’m sure you do.” She looked at him, trying to read his expression.

But the image of his large face, leaning into hers in the cave as he attempted to squeeze the life from her, kept invading her thoughts. She was speaking before she knew what she was saying. “But that just ain’t gonna happen. I’m not going to beg. Because I think you’re bullshitting me.”

Mayfield shrugged. “Maybe I am. And maybe I’m not.” He leaned forward again. “But aren’t you curious? It’s going to eat away at you, every night when you get into bed and turn off the lights. You’ll think of me, of this conversation. You’ll think about the lost opportunity to get to the bottom of this. And it’ll eat you up inside.”

Vail couldn’t argue with that. That’s exactly what’s going to happen. Goddamn it. This scumbag seems to have some kind of periscope into my thoughts.

Vail had to change the rules. She realized now she had approached this interview incorrectly. She was too close, had too much invested—the fucker tried to kill me—to be objective. She should have tried to strike a chord within him, talk to him and touch him like he’d never been touched before. I need to get him to connect to me in a way John Mayfield has never connected with anyone before. Is that possible, given our history?

She closed the file folder and pushed it aside, but kept her left hand on the table. “You know what? I want to back up for a minute. I’ve been rude to you, and that was wrong.” She placed her hand on the exposed, noncasted area of Mayfield’s, careful to avoid quick or awkward movements. She was trying to establish a connection with him and didn’t want anything disrupting it. “Can we start over?”

Mayfield looked down at their hands. He looked up at her, a distant look in his eyes. Confusion.

Vail pressed on. “Tell me something.” Her voice was soft, non-threatening. “Tell me about your mother, John.” His eyes narrowed. He was listening. Like taming a lion, his tremendous power was suddenly neutralized. “Your mother is sitting right there,” Vail said, nodding toward a seat to her right, in the corner of the room. “It’s empty, but she’s sitting there. Say something to her.”

Mayfield turned his head slowly, his eyes remaining on Vail. For the first time, he looked unsure of himself.

“Go on, look at her. I’m not going to judge or hurt you. No one else is here. Just you, me, and your mother.”

Mayfield’s eyes remained on Vail a long moment, then they swung to his left, toward the empty chair. He quickly looked away, then back at Vail. “I can’t.”

“You can,” she said soothingly. “Tell her what you feel, what’s on your mind. Tell her what you’ve always wanted to tell her.”

Mayfield turned his entire head this time. Facing the empty chair, staring at it, his eyes moistened. A minute passed. Then two. Finally, he said, in a low voice, “You let it happen. Why did you let him do that to me, Ma? Why?”

Vail leaned in, ever so slightly. “John, what was it that she let happen to you?”

“My father. It was my father.” He licked his lips. Hesitated, sat there quietly another moment before continuing. “I was thirteen. He wasn’t happy with me. I was a scrawny kid, unsure of myself. I walked slumped over. I disappointed him. He wanted me to play varsity football but I was too small. Guys in the neighborhood would spit on me, they beat me up, stole things from me. Made fun of me.” He stopped. The tears flowed down his cheek. “He called me a little runt.”

“It’s okay,” Vail said, barely above a whisper.

Mayfield sniffled. Still looking at the empty seat. “My father wanted to make me a man. So he hired a hooker, a whore. I ran out, but he caught me in the kitchen and dragged me back into the bedroom. Tied me down.”

Vail knew where this was going before Mayfield said it. “She raped you?”

“He said I needed to be a man. He stood outside the door and listened. I saw his feet underneath the door. Standing there.” He dragged his nose across his shoulder. Face down now, he talked to his lap. “But I was a man now. I’d had sex with a woman, with a whore. And my mother let it happen.”

“Was she there, too?” Vail asked softly.

“There?” Mayfield shook his head. “She was always working. She was never there. My father couldn’t keep a job, so he was always at home, getting drunk and smoking pot and playing cards. My mother was never around. But she knew what was happening, and she did nothing.” He lifted his head and turned to the empty chair. Took a deep, uneven breath, slumped forward and put his right elbow on the table.

“I don’t think your mother knew. I don’t think she’d let that happen to you, John. Did you ever . . . tell her?”

Mayfield swung his face toward Vail’s. “I couldn’t.”

Vail nodded slowly. “I understand.” And, honestly, she did understand. What thirteen-year-old could face his mother and tell her he’d been raped by a prostitute? The details of how it happened were unimportant. It was too embarrassing for most thirteen-year-olds to admit. Telling your mother something that personal, face-to-face, was out of the question. The evolution of John Mayfield into serial killer was now clear. She lowered her eyes, saddened by the series of events that led to this man in front of her having taken the lives of so many innocent people. People who had nothing to do with John Mayfield’s failed upbringing.

Piercing the quiet, the moment, was the grumbling vibration of Vail’s BlackBerry. Both she and Mayfield reflexively jumped as she lifted her hand off his and fumbled to answer it. She cursed herself for forgetting to silence it.

The display said it was Bledsoe. Goddamn it. Take it or not? What if he had critical information on Robby? Mayfield had revealed to her some of the most crucial details: why he killed. But she hadn’t yet gotten into the equally important questions of how and why he chose these particular victims.

Why the male?

And the document he’d sent that listed victims they didn’t know about—who were they?

Then there were those affiliated with the AVA board—the special cases. What the hell did that mean?

Phone vibrating. Answer Bledsoe’s call or not?

She may never have a chance to reestablish the connection she’d developed with Mayfield. But the decision was made for her. Mayfield yanked back, pulling his arm off the table.

His reaction took Vail by surprise. In that instant, she thought he was going to hit her, and she recoiled, nearly fell backwards in her chair. The phone stopped ringing. Fuck. Lost the connection—to Mayfield and to Bledsoe.

“I’m done talking,” Mayfield said. “You’re a whore just like my mother. Pretending to care, to be there for me. I should’ve killed you when I had the chance. Just like I killed the others. Guess I’m a fucking man now, huh!”

Vail shoved the BlackBerry into its holster and rose from her chair.

Mayfield tried to stand. But his leg cast—and the restraint cuffed to the armrest—forced him to fall back into his seat. “Remember, Vail. There’s more to this than you know. And I’m beginning to doubt you’re smart enough to ever figure it out.”

The door to her right swung open and in stepped Ray Lugo. He lifted his right hand, revealing a black SIG-Sauer pistol.

And it was pointed at Mayfield.

“Ray!” Vail lunged for the gun—but Lugo fired. The blast in the small room was deafening.

Vail grabbed Lugo’s pistol and wrapped her hands around it, trying to force it toward the ceiling. But Lugo was intent on keeping the SIG on target.

“Drop it. Ray. Drop. The. Fucking. Gun!”

Lugo twisted back, but Vail held on, ducking to keep her face from the barrel of the pistol. “Leave me the hell alone—” he yelled, then yanked down hard and drove his left shoulder into her chest.

Vail bounced into the wall fell to the side

Mayfield—blood—yelling—and

Lugo fired again.

As Vail got to her feet, Lugo crumpled and fell backwards into the wall. He grabbed for his neck. Blood was spurting, soaking the carpet and Vail—Vail pulled off her blouse and pressed it against Lugo’s neck.

Banging on the door. “Karen!”

Brix.

He was trying to get into the room, but Lugo’s body was blocking the doorway.

“Ray’s been shot,” Vail yelled. “He’s been shot!”

Holding her shirt tight against Lugo’s neck, she dragged his body a few inches to the side . . . an opening just wide enough for Brix to squeeze through.

“What happened?”

“I don’t know. A ricochet?” Vail grabbed Lugo’s neck to apply firmer pressure. “We’ve gotta get him to the ER. Help me carry him—”

Brix lifted Lugo into his arms—not an easy task because the man was thick and it was a cramped space—but they managed to get him out of the room and down the hall. Vail tried her best to keep pressure on his neck wound.

“What the hell happened?” Dixon asked, following closely behind. “I was watching you on the monitor. I looked away and then there’s a gunshot.”

They stumbled through the metal door and hung a left into another corridor. “We need to get him to the hospital,” Vail said. “He’s been shot—”

“Get the van,” Brix yelled. “Bring it around Main. By the Sally Port. He’s fucking heavy. And call an ambulance for Mayfield!”

There were shouts in the hallway as deputies cleared the way and scattered.

“Bring the van around!”

“Hurry!”

“Call the Med Center,” Brix yelled. “Tell ’em we’re en route. LEO with a GSW to the neck . . .”

SIXTY-FOUR

They loaded Ray Lugo into the back of a state Department of Corrections specially outfitted Ford E-350 Super Duty van. The passenger compartment was lined with a thick gray-metal cage, so there wasn’t much room. Nevertheless, Dixon and Vail squeezed in, alongside Lugo. Vail’s head pressed tight against the ceiling.

The claustrophobic crush of being in confined spaces began building in Vail’s chest. Shit. I can’t deal with this now. Focus on Lugo, keep pressure on his neck.

Brix hoisted himself in and pushed onto the bench seat beside Vail as the van screeched away from the building. Shoulder to shoulder, they swayed with the vehicle’s jerky movements. Her head repeatedly struck the roof with each bump in the road.

Vail was covered in Lugo’s blood, the slick liquid coating her arms and face, shoulder, bra—

Concentrate. Keep pressure on his neck.

“All right,” Brix said. “What happened? Ray stowed his gun, I saw him do it.”

Dixon patted down Lugo’s jeans. “Me, too.” Her hands stopped moving and she squeezed his left ankle. Drew back his pant leg, revealing a holster. “Backup piece.”

“Fuck.”

“But how did he get hit? If he was aiming for Mayfield—”

“He fired twice,” Vail said. “Must’ve been hit by a ricochet.”

Brix nodded. “The Blue Room walls are cement. Makes sense. But why—why Mayfield?” Brix leaned forward. “Why, Ray?”

Lugo’s breathing was labored. His lids parted and his eyes rotated toward Brix. “Him. He . . . started it.”

“Who started it? Mayfield?”

“May . . . field. Kidnapped.”

“Kidnapped?” Vail asked. “Who? Mayfield kidnapped you?”

He fluttered his eyelids. “Wife. Son. He was . . . going to . . . kill them. Made deal. He lets ’em live.”

“You made a deal with Mayfield?” Brix asked.

“Told me. Can’t escape . . . him. Will find us.” He licked his lips. “Scared . . .”

“He scared you,” Dixon said, “so you cut a deal? With a goddamn killer, Ray? You’re a cop, a sergeant, for chrissake.”

“No . . . Tried finding . . . him. No leads. Couldn’t . . .”

Dixon leaned in. “What kind of deal did you cut with him, Ray?”

“Looked. Couldn’t find. He . . . found out. Warned me.” He coughed.

Blood leaked. Vail pressed her shirt harder against the wound.

“What kind of deal,” Dixon repeated, this time louder, firmer.

Lugo did not answer at first. Finally, he said, “Helped. Left wife . . . son . . . alone.”

“That’s why you shot him?” Brix asked. “Because you helped him? You thought he’d rat you out?”

“Helped him how?” Dixon asked.

“Had to.”

“Had to, what? Had to shoot him, or you had to help him?”

“Ray,” Vail said. “What did Mayfield mean when he said, ‘There’s more to this than you know’?”

His eyes swiveled to Vail, then toward Brix. “Look . . . after. Wife. Son.” Lugo’s voice was low. He was gurgling his words. “Or . . . he . . . wins.”

“What?” Vail looked to Brix for confirmation of the meaning of the garbled words. Then she dropped her gaze to Lugo. “Ray! Mayfield wins? Why?”

Lugo closed his eyes. Vail grabbed his shoulder and shook. “Ray! Stay with us. Why is there more to this?”

Lugo opened his eyes. Brix leaned in close. “Was Mayfield the Crush Killer?”

“Yeah . . . but . . .” Lugo sucked in air. Blood bubbled on his lips. “Disc . . .” His body convulsed, then went limp.

Oh, my god. A horrifying thought suddenly formed in Vail’s mind: Had Mayfield killed Robby? Did Lugo help him? Is that what Ray was talking about? Is that what Mayfield meant? ‘There’s more to this.’ Am I going to find Robby dead in some vineyard, missing the second toenail on his right foot?

Dixon looked at Brix. “Did he say, ‘disc’? What disc?”

Vail grabbed Lugo’s wrist and felt for a pulse. She looked away. Brix did the same, but nothing needed to be said. Everyone in the van knew that Lugo was gone.

Brix’s phone buzzed. He looked down, glanced at the display. “Ambulance is en route with Mayfield.”

“Still alive?”

He reread the text message. “Barely. Probably not going to survive the ride.”

Vail slumped back against the van wall, her head and shoulders bouncing with the bumps in the road. Brix had his bloody hands on his face, elbows on his knees. And Dixon just sat there, staring at Lugo, at the man she had known for so long. Yet hadn’t known at all.

The van pulled into the ER parking lot and stopped with a lurch. They didn’t move. The back doors swung open. Two hospital personnel in scrubs peered in and apparently read their body language. “Is he gone?” one of them asked.

“Gone,” Brix said.

“You sure?”

“I fucking know when a cop’s dead. Now close the goddamn door and leave us alone.”

The van was dark again, save for the parking lot light filtering through the tinted rear windows.

They sat in silence until Vail’s phone vibrated. And vibrated. She ignored it. Seconds later, it vibrated again.

It pulled her back to rational thought. With blood-smeared hands, she reached for the BlackBerry. Put it against her ear. “Yeah.”

“Karen, it’s Bledsoe. I checked everything. Airports, flights. Credit cards. Car rentals, hotels, area hospitals, morgues, police and sheriff departments in a hundred mile radius. I can’t be totally sure because it’s the middle of the night, but I came up empty. I got nothing. There’s no sign of Robby.”

Vail dropped the phone to her lap. Bledsoe was still talking, but it didn’t matter. His words resonated and repeated in her head: There’s no sign of Robby.

Exhausted, famished, emotionally drained, and covered in a dead man’s blood, she closed her eyes.

And she cried.

A NOTE FROM ALAN JACOBSON

I know, I know . . . I left a few loose threads hanging on this garment. Fear not, they will be tied together, neatly trimmed or tucked away in the next Karen Vail novel.

Go now (yes, now) to www.crush.alanjacobson.com for a short video featuring yours truly discussing the ending to Crush. But that’s not all—you’ll also find a few other surprises there. See you soon.

—ALAN

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

As always, I could not have written this novel with the accuracy and credibility I strive for without the assistance and cooperation of the following professionals:

Senior FBI profiler Supervisory Special Agent Mark Safarik (ret). Mark, now Executive Director of Forensic Behavioral Services International, started as a vital resource fifteen years ago and became a close friend. His knowledge and expertise in the field of criminal investigative analysis is tops among his peers. I value his friendship, his input, our discussions, and his detailed and critical review of the manuscript.

Senior FBI profiler Supervisory Special Agent Mary Ellen O’Toole (ret). Mary Ellen provided key information regarding her experiences dealing with narcissistic serial killers, including their offender character traits, crime scene behaviors, and the interview techniques she has used with them. Moreover, the stories Mary Ellen shared with me over the years relative to her long career in the profiling unit helped me understand Karen Vail’s challenges and opportunities.

Sergeant Matt Talbott, St. Helena Police Department. Matt was my first law enforcement contact in the valley. He helped orient me as to the Napa County Major Crimes Task Force and its makeup, operations, procedures, and background, as well as the various policing and jurisdictional nuances of the Napa Valley.

Captain Jean Donaldson, Napa County Sheriff’s Department. Jean not only gave me a comprehensive tour of the Sheriff’s Department facility, including the morgue, task force conference room, and all points in between, but he graciously answered my unending follow-up questions about department procedures and operations.

D. J. Johnson, Assistant Director of the Napa County Department of Corrections. D. J. took me on a comprehensive, behind-the-scenes tour of the Napa County Hall of Justice, particularly the jail and court-house, and provided detailed explanations of the Department of Corrections’ operational procedures.

David Pearson, CEO of Opus One Winery. David assisted me with understanding appellations, AVA associations, their boards, and the politics that permeate the wine-growing regions. A longtime wine industry veteran, David took me on a fascinating personal tour of Opus One, and subsequently reviewed pertinent portions of the manuscript for accuracy.

Tomás Palmer, Senior Security Program Manager at Microsoft. Tomás provided detailed explanations regarding embedded data in Office documents—and kept it on a level a nonprogrammer could comprehend. During our ongoing exchanges of information and “what if” scenarios, I found Tomás to be a creative and outside-the-box thinker—an invaluable resource to a thriller novelist. He also reviewed relevant sections of the manuscript to make sure I didn’t mangle what we’d discussed.

James Patton, Deputy Director of Global Trade Compliance at Microsoft. Jim ran point, putting me in touch with Tomás and arranging mind-blowing behind-the-scenes tours of the Microsoft campus facilities, which included a fascinating look at the company’s cutting edge research. In addition, thanks to Bryan Rutberg, Director of the Redmond Executive Briefing Center and Dominic Trimboli, Group Manager Executive Briefings, for showing me around the Executive Briefing Center and teaching me how to use the Surface computer.

Jonathan Hayes, a senior forensic pathologist in the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner in New York City, and a clinical assistant professor at NYU School of Medicine. Jonathan, author of the thriller A Hard Death, provided information on body decomposition and advised me on the drug BetaSomnol. Before I start receiving emails due to concern over conveying actual dosages about real pharmaceuticals, it was best to invent a drug—no harm in a little creative license—and get on with the story. Both Jonathan and I will sleep easier.

Amanda Montes, Translations Switch Technician for CellularOne Arizona. Amanda provided information regarding text messaging, storage, law enforcement standards, access, and terminology.

Senior Special Agent Susan Morton, of the Arizona HIDTA (High-Intensity Drug Trafficking Area), and Law Enforcement Specialist Marybeth McFarland, at the National Park Service’s Golden Gate National Recreation Area, for background on the complex jurisdictional issues relative to the park. As the fictional SFPD inspector said, you really do need a map and scorecard to keep it straight!

Jeffrey Jacobson, Esq., former prosecutor, Assistant U.S. Attorney, current Associate General Counsel for the Federal Law Enforcement Officers Association . . . and my brother. Jeff answers my procedural questions when pesky legal issues interrupt the telling of my stories.

Jeff Ayers, author, librarian, media escort, friend. Jeff connected me with James Patton, and shuttled me around Seattle like a pro.

Kevin Fagan, San Francisco Chronicle staff writer, for timely assistance with the Zodiac case. Greg Miller, for a primer on appellations, AVAs, Napa politics, and police jurisdictions.

Roger Cooper, my publisher. I’m extremely fortunate to have the ongoing opportunity to work closely with Roger. His forty years in publishing are an invaluable resource; more than that, however, Roger is a visionary, a tireless worker, and someone who has earned my limitless respect. I am guided by his insight and knowledge.

Georgina Levitt, Vanguard Press associate publisher, and Amanda Ferber, publishing manager. Georgina and Amanda are my lifelines throughout the publishing process. It is truly a pleasure to work with two very professional, efficient, and special individuals.

Peter Costanzo, Vanguard’s director of online marketing, for producing such a fine and functional web site; and the entire Vanguard sales force and production staff, who busted their tails behind the scenes to assemble a first-class product—and then get it sold into the stores.

Kevin Smith, my editor. Kevin and I are of like minds when it comes to suspense. He understands my characters and what I am trying to accomplish with each novel. For Crush, his vision and astute observations helped me find that razor’s edge.

Laura Stine, my project editor. Laura is the embodiment of dotted i’s and crossed t’s. With so many moving parts at the production end of publishing a novel, it’s essential to have a chief at the helm making sure the hard work gets packaged into a polished final product.

Anais Scott, my copy editor. There are an unfathomable number of details to keep straight across four hundred pages, and having someone trolling my sentences with Anais’s extraordinary attention to detail is vital.

Jen Ballot, my publicist. Jen did an unbelievable job setting up a successful, aggressive, and full-scale book tour in the most challenging retail and promotional environment in decades.

Joel Gotler and Frank Curtis, my agents. As fortunate as I am to have Roger Cooper as my publisher, I’m equally as blessed to have two agents with the decades of experience Joel and Frank possess. They have freed me to think less about the business of rights, subrights, and contracts—and more about creating unique stories and characters.

Gil Adler and Shane McCarthy, the producers who bought the film rights to The 7th Victim and my (eventually) forthcoming novel, Hard Target. They have made my first Hollywood experiences special, memorable, and enjoyable. I couldn’t have asked for better people to work with in this process.

Jill, my wife, best friend, and editor. I’ve joked that there’s a lot of me in Karen Vail . . . but there’s also a fair amount of Jill in Karen Vail. Jill’s influence is felt throughout the manuscript, not just from our trips to (and experiences in) the wine country, but also behind the scenes, in her critical review of the story and characters. She has put up with me being sequestered in my office toiling away at these pages all day and night, and well into the morning hours. Thanks for being patient.

To my readers . . . Thanks for your support, for spreading the word about “Alan Jacobson” to friends, family members, neighbors, colleagues, book clubs, and bloggers. My promise to you is that I will always try my best to entertain you with unique characters and interesting stories. Come out and see me sometime at one of my signings. I’m here for you.

Thanks, as well, to those who went above and beyond to help sell my books: Nanci Gill, Carey Pena, Gretchen Pahia, Larry Comacho, Dave Anderson, Helen Raptis, Leslie Martin, Kelly Jackson, Dan Elliott; Marianne McClary, Nick Toma, Mark S. Allen; Bill Thompson; Tom Hedtke, Beth O’Connor, Vicky Lorini; Colleen Holcombe; Jeff Broyles; Terry Abbott; Pam Chadwick, Doran Beckman; Mary Ann Diehl; Judy Wible, Jackie Kelly; Gunjan Koul; Douglas Thompson; Jean Coggan, Kristine Williams; Shana Pennington-Baird; Russ Ilg; John Hutchinson, Virginia Lenneville; Ruth and Jon Jordan; Alex Telander; Jared Martin; Debbie White, Alison Meltcher; Torey Harkins; Jeff Bobby; Joel Harris; J. B. Dickey, Maryelizabeth Hart, Terry Gilman, Patrick Heffernan; Joan Hansen; Bobby McCue, Linda Brown, Pam Woods, Kirk Pasich; April Lilley, Christine Hilferty; Lorri Amsden; Jeffrey Jacobson; Corey Jacobson; Russell and Marion Weis; Marci and Paul Ortega; Len Rudnick; Wayne and Julia Rudnick; Marc Hernandez, Ronny Peskin; Marc Benezra (fifty times over); Bill Kitzerow (you da man!); Mikel London, Tim Murphy, Dennis Hoover; John Hartman; Perry Ginsberg; Florence Jacobson; Pete Bluford; Andrew Gulli; Art O’Connor; Sarie Morrell; Anthony and Herta Peju, Peter Verdin, Katie Lewis, Stacee Cootes, Alan Arnopole, Robert Sherman, Helena Frazier; Micheal Weinhaus; C. J. Snow; Aaron Matzkin; Heather Williams; Mike and Betsy Schoenfeld; Josh and Debbie Sabah; Dena Benezra; Richard Grossman; Mimi Graham-Rose; Susanna Yao.

Author’s note: For obvious reasons, some of the locations mentioned in the novel are fictitious; many, however, are real. For those of you visiting the region, stop by the real wineries and restaurants mentioned in Crush for some world-class Napa Valley wine (for a list of these wineries, wines, and restaurants, visit www.crush.alanjacobson.com).

I’ve attempted to ensure accuracy—but despite my best efforts, it’s likely I’ve blown some fact somewhere among these four hundred pages. This is not a function of the aforementioned esteemed professionals I consulted, but rather my own error. If I unwittingly omitted anyone from the acknowledgments, please forgive me.

ALAN JACOBSON is the national bestselling author of the critically acclaimed thriller The 7th Victim, which was named to Library Journal ’s “Best Books of the Year” list for 2008. Alan’s years of research with law enforcement, particularly the FBI, influenced him both personally and professionally and have helped shape the stories he tells and the diverse characters that populate his novels.

Both The 7th Victim and one of Alan’s forthcoming thrillers, Hard Target, are currently under development as major feature films with an A-list Hollywood producer.

Visit Alan at www.AlanJacobson.com.

For more information on Crush, visit www.CrushNovel.com.

Copyright © 2009 by Alan Jacobson