Karen Vail 01 - Velocity (13 page)

“Looks that way. Fairly recently. Within days, would be my guess. But we’l know more once we get a CSI out here. I made the cal . He’s a half hour out. The guys just cleared the house. We’re gonna go through it now.”

Brix said, “Keep us posted,” then ended the cal .

“That would fit the profile,” Vail said. “If he was learning from Mayfield, he decided it was time to try one himself. Started with an animal to prove he could actual y kil something, to see how it felt. I wouldn’t be surprised if he started with something smal er, like a squirrel or a dog, but that deer could’ve been his first.”

“Hopeful y he’s here and we can find out once and for al what the deal is.” Brix unholstered his SIG, checked it, then shoved it back into its leather pancake.

“Roxx?”

Dixon patted her side, where her sidearm was affixed. “Yeah. Go in with Karen.

I’l keep watch. He shows his face, he won’t get far.”

Leaving Dixon positioned thirty yards back of the front entrance, giving her a view of the entire facility, Brix and Vail headed across newly laid sandstone tiles, toward oak barrel plank wood doors.

The building was a recently constructed stone structure—sporting workmanship that took substantial time, and money, to complete. Inside, boxes were stacked high atop one another. Carpenters were huddled around half-built bare wood counters. Sawdust coated every surface, and floated freely in the air. The whine of a dril rose and fel .

Looking though the front window, Vail took in as much as she could, as rapidly as she could. How many people were there, and where. Her right hand hovered near her holster, poised for quick access to her Glock 23.

“I don’t see Cannon.”

“Me either,” Brix said. “I’l go in, let you know.” He pul ed open the wood door and entered.

Vail watched as he surveyed the interior, tapped a worker on the shoulder, and exchanged a few words. He then faced the window and motioned Vail inside.

As she entered, a man with rol ed-up sleeves walked into the lobby, holding blueprints. A pencil was tucked between his lips.

“Excuse me,” Brix said. “We need to talk with someone in charge.” He flashed his badge, then slipped it back into his pocket.

The man studied Brix’s face, then Vail’s. He pul ed the pencil from his mouth and stuck it behind his ear. “I’m one of the managing partners. Cap. Cap Krandle.”

Vail said, “We’ve got some questions about the TTB application you submitted.

Is your wine maker here?”

“Should be in the back. Haven’t seen him in a while.”

Vail’s gaze continued to roam the shadowed crevices of the room. “We’re going to need to know how long ‘a while’ is.”

“I don’t know. He was out in the vineyard this morning—”

“Did he tel you he was out in the vineyard,” Brix asked, “or did you observe that?”

The man tucked his chin back. “Is there a problem?”

Vail rested her hands on her hips. “Would we be here asking these questions if there wasn’t ‘a problem’?”

Krandle chewed on that a moment. Then he glanced over his shoulder, turned back to Brix and Vail and said, “He told me. I got here, I was busy with the guys here, working with the carpenters to make sure we had the day’s work laid out before us. We’re expecting a delivery and they need to make sure things are cleared out of the loading dock before the truck comes.” He shrugged. “I went back down into the barrel room and he was there. He told me he’d been out in the vineyards al morning.”

Brix and Vail stared at each other. Their faces were firm, but they each knew the impact of the man’s statement.

“Anyone else here who might’ve seen Mr. Cannon?”

Krandle scanned both their faces. “
Cannon
. Jimmy Cannon?”

Vail tilted her head. “Yeah. That’s who we’re talking about, right?”

“I thought you asked about our wine maker. Eugene Hannity.”

“Hann—so what does James—Jimmy Cannon do here?”

“Jimmy’s our inventory manager. He applied for the wine maker position, but he had no experience and we wanted someone who’d been there, done that.” Krandle chuckled. “We told Jimmy, ‘Maybe someday. Learn the trade, then maybe we’l talk.

But that’s years down the road.’”

The muscles in Brix’s jaw shifted. “Then let’s back up and start the fuck over.

Where’s James Cannon been al day?”

“No idea,” Krandle said. “But I did see him about fifteen minutes ago.”

“Where?” Vail asked, her fingers inching closer to the Glock’s handle.

Krandle thumbed an area over his shoulder. Just then, the whites of two eyes appeared in the distant darkness. And then they vanished.

Vail saw them, threw her left hand back, and slapped Brix in the shoulder. And then she took off, shoving Cap Krandle into the wal and heading past him, down the hal way into the shadows. She yanked out the Glock, keeping her back against the rough stone of the corridor as she sidled into the darkness.

Brix was behind her, presumably with his SIG drawn.

They moved quickly through the sawdust-fogged air, toward a larger area lit by a single compact fluorescent bulb. They both cleared the room, eyes scanning the wal s, looking for an exit.

DIXON STOOD IN THE COOL AIR, looking out at the mountains a few miles away, thinking how serene and scenic the landscape was up here.

She swiveled back toward the stone structure and blew some air out her lips.

Was this a waste of time, or was James Cannon real y a kil er? The deer blood Gordon and Mann found may or may not be significant; Cannon could merely be a hunter.

Dixon thought back to the conversation at the gym. He was cocky and seemed to bul y Mayfield—not what she would expect if Mayfield was Cannon’s mentor. It came off as playful banter between two friends, but was there something going on beneath the surface? Or were they playacting?

As she mul ed her previous exchange with Mayfield and Cannon, her phone vibrated. She pul ed the handset from her pocket without taking her eyes off the building. “Yeah.”

“Roxx.”

Brix’s voice.

“He might be on his way out toward you. Cannon isn’t the wine maker, he’s a wannabe. Currently the inventory manager. We didn’t get a good look at him, but someone made us and took off.”

“Got it.” She snapped her phone closed and drew her SIG.

“ANYTHING?” VAIL WHISPERED.

Brix used hand signals to indicate he was moving toward the door. He wanted her to cover him.

Brix stepped to the side, grabbed the knob, and pul ed it open. Vail was in a crouch, Glock out front in a Weaver stance. The area beyond the door was vacant.

Brix motioned her through.

Vail slid forward, cautious yet determined not to let Cannon escape their grasp.

At best, they had a scared employee who saw cops and, for whatever reason, didn’t want to hang around to chat. At worst, they had a murderer in their sights, someone who might be able to provide clues about Robby.

Vail moved onward, through another room and down a different hal way. She was beginning to think they were going to lose him. He knew the layout of the winery, much of which wasn’t even finished, and there could be an exit they hadn’t seen during their approach. Some downwind access, a loading dock or delivery port that would take him away from them without their ever seeing him.

She was about to turn to share her thoughts with Brix when her phone rang.

DIXON STOOD THERE with her SIG at the ready, clasped in both hands, knees slightly bent, forearms taut.

And that’s when she saw him: James Cannon, the size and shape, the face. No doubt. They locked eyes—and his gaze dropped to her hands, where she was holding the chiseled metal pistol.

“Hold it right there, Jimmy,” Dixon shouted.

But he didn’t “hold it right there.” He spun and ran.

21

H
e’s headed—” Dixon craned her head skyward, but the sun wasn’t far enough in one direction to estimate east or west. She glanced toward the mountains, estimated where Highway 29 sat, and pressed the handset back to her mouth.

“West, I think. Down behind the building. Positive ID.”

“As soon as we find our way out,” Vail said, “we’l have your back.”

Dixon shoved the phone in her pocket and increased her pace, headed around the sharply sloped left side of the building. She shifted the SIG to her left hand and stuck out her right, using it as a third leg against the hil side. Her feet slipped in the loosely til ed soil, but she maintained her balance.

Fifty feet ahead of her, Cannon was doing much the same, ambling as fast as he could. But was he running away from her or toward something?

A yel behind her—Vail’s voice. Dixon dared not turn around or she might lose her balance and slide down the hil into the vines that lay less than ten feet away.

Cannon was approaching level ground.

“Jimmy—” Dixon cal ed. “We just want to talk! C’mon, man, why are you running?”

The dumb cop routine didn’t work—Cannon kept moving. He climbed over a short wrought iron fence, more decorative than functional, and broke into a dead run.

Dixon struggled with the soil, and the faster she tried to go, the more she slipped and slid.

Goddamn it, come on!

VAIL TOOK ONE LOOK at the sloped ground and knew she could not traverse it.

She had undergone knee surgery two months ago, and had already stressed it more than was wise. Vail waved Brix by her and told him she’d circle around. But as she turned to head back toward the front of the sprawling, multilevel building, her eye caught sight of an ATV parked in the shadows of a utility garage built into the far end of the structure. It was a tier below them, and Cannon was headed toward it.

That’s his endgame.

DIXON GRABBED a protruding root and yanked hard, using it to leverage herself up and over the fence. But as her feet hit the level ground, the rev of a rough outboard engine snagged her attention. She looked up to see James Cannon on a three wheel vehicle blowing out of an open garage. He twisted the throttle and the ATV burst forward, over the far edge of the hil .

And out of sight.

22

V
ail reached Brix’s Crown Victoria out of breath—not so much because of the run but due to the stress of the moment, piled atop the strain of the past week. So much on her mind, so much had gone wrong. So little had gone right.

And now a kil er within her grasp, about to slip away—unless she prevented it.

She yanked open the door. But she was out of sync. She stuck her right leg into the car just as the door hit the endpoint and swung back into her face.
Fuck!

She pushed it open again, felt her bottom lip swel ing, then grabbed the keys from atop the visor. Backed out and headed farther down the road, around the other side of the tasting room building. But the road stopped—dead-ended as they had original y thought it did.

For an ATV, however, roads were unnecessary. That was something they had not anticipated.

The Ford’s engine was idling, her foot was shoved up against the brake—and she was fil ed with indecision. Forward? Or back, the way they came in? Which way would Cannon go? Toward the road? No—that’d make no sense. On the road, the cops had the advantage. Off road, the ATV was king.

Ahead were vines and beyond that, evergreens. Mountain. Uphil . Behind her, if Cannon was not headed for the road, he could go down through the vineyard and then into the forest. They wouldn’t be able to fol ow and he had acres upon acres to roam.

She swung the car around, floored the pedal, and drove past the winery building, which flew by on her right. And then, as she surmised, in the distance, a plume of smoke bil owing behind him, was James Cannon and his ATV.

Vail climbed out of the car and started on foot after Cannon. It was hopeless, real y. She knew that. But to just stand there and watch as the kil er who had posed the woman in front of the Hal of Justice got away was more than she could stomach at the moment. Cannon’s mind game of leaving the vic on law enforcement’s doorstep had worked: Vail’s anger was close to boiling over into a red zone of danger.

She tore the Glock from her holster and headed into the vineyard.

23

V
ail ran down an aisle, knowing the risks to her knee. Knowing it was something she had to do.

Behind her somewhere, Dixon and Brix were shouting.

She wasn’t about to turn around—or stop. Now in the same vineyard row as Cannon, al she could see was the brown plume of smoke. She smel ed the acrid gasoline fumes and tasted the dirt on her tongue. Her sweat-soaked face was coated with a fine film of soil.

Trying to keep the dust from infiltrating her lungs—already irritated from the fire a few days ago—she brought her left arm to her mouth and buried her nose and lips in the crook of her elbow.

And as James Cannon continued increasing the distance between them, the sheer futility of her efforts hit her ful on. She slowed to a jog, then stopped, bent over at the waist, hands on her knees.

She looked up to see the cloud of brown dirt hooking into the dense blind of trees to her right. Just as she had suspected.

Vail straightened up, her eyes tracking Cannon’s visible trail as she felt with her fingers to insert the Glock into its holster.

A moment later, she was joined by Dixon and Brix. She pointed toward the plume, somewhere in the distance, a location that was now only accurate in her imagination. She had no idea where James Cannon had gone. She just knew he wasn’t lying at her feet, handcuffs encircling his wrists.