Karen Vail 01 - Velocity (8 page)

Dixon shook her head. “Doesn’t make sense that he’d be involved with Mayfield.

He’s got no cover. He’s total y exposed.”

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

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

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

She answered the cal and pressed the phone to her ear.

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

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

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

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

“Don’t tel me you’re stil working the Crush Kil er. I specifical y told you you’re off the case, and you assured me, Karen. You
promised
me—”

“It’s not what you think, sir.”

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

“Sir, listen to me—”

“No, you listen to me for once.”

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

“If you think that’s an excuse—”

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

“Have you alerted the local field office?”

“No. We’ve been fol owing up leads on the Crush Kil er.”

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

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

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

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

“And?” Gifford asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh,” Vail said, nodding. “The CSI here found blood on the carpet in our B&B.

He’s running it—”

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

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

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

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

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

Vail pul ed the phone from her ear, her face contorting into sarcastic disbelief.

Fortunately Gifford couldn’t see her—it’d most likely set him off. She brought the handset back against her head. “Sir,” she said in a measured tone. “I’m sure you can understand that I’ve got my mind on finding Robby. I can’t just leave here.

Assign the case to someone else.”

“What I
understand
is that I stil have the behavioral analysis units to run and that’s my priority. What I
understand
is that you’re in a tough way right now. And I also
understand
that we’ve got a task force there working the case, and a wel -

equipped San Francisco field office ready to step in that can do the job just fine.”

“With al due respect, I disagree.”

“Not the first time, is it, Karen?”

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

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

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

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

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

—she felt justified.

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

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

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

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

“How soon, what?”

“Til I have to leave. How soon?”

“Lenka is booking your flight as we speak. You leave tomorrow morning, a 6:30

connecting flight out of SFO. She’s arranging a car to pick you up at 4:00 AM.

She’l email you the flight info.”

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

“We’l find him, Karen.”

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

“He wants you back,” Dixon said.

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

“We’l handle it, Karen. I’l stay in touch with you. We’l be your eyes and ears.

We won’t let you down. Okay?”

Vail nodded out the windshield at no one in particular, numbly and blindly. “No.

Not okay. We’ve got several hours.” She turned to Dixon, her face hard. “Before I leave, god help me, I’m gonna have some answers. We’l find Cannon. We’l find out what Merilynn Lugo knows. And we’l know if César Guevara is involved in Robby’s disappearance.” She pressed a hand against her pocket, which contained the photo of Robby. “You with me on this?”

Dixon did not hesitate. “Yes.”

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

12

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dixon navigated out of Napa proper toward American Canyon, and the landscape changed from wineries to a more urbanized backdrop. “What Ray said.

It’s not an unlikely story.”

“
If
it’s true, I’d bet it’s only the first chapter. Working the vineyards is probably how they met. But what happened after that? How did their relationship develop?

That’s what we need to find out. That could be a key.”

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

Mounted on the wal , at least a dozen feet off the ground, was the largest LCD

high-definition television Vail had seen outside a professional sports stadium. The volume was turned down, but it was tuned to what looked like the replay of a vintage basebal game.

A medium-build Hispanic man appeared from behind the far end of one of the rigs. He wore a blue dress shirt with rol ed-up sleeves and held a long screwdriver.

César Guevara. He made eye contact with Vail, then looked away in disgust. “Not you again.”

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

“More questions?” Guevara asked.

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

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

There—a narrowing of his eyelids.

“Should I?”

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

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

“What is it?” Vail asked.

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

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

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

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

“Is that a crime?”

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

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

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